


And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by tenaciouscorpse



Category: Glee
Genre: Horror, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaciouscorpse/pseuds/tenaciouscorpse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson is an FBI agent who specializes in investigating cults. He can also see ghosts. One night he is approached by Kurt Hummel, the victim of a ritualistic murder committed twenty years ago--and finds himself thrust into the boy's desperate and bloodthirsty search for revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed warnings: violence and gore, horror, implicit non-con, character death, drug use, implicit torture, age gap, heavy religious themes including religious violence

Darkness swallowed up everything, but for small streaks of weak flashlight wobbling with movement as the group moved in one solid _thing_ toward the woods. Blaine was part of this thing, and yet he felt pulled apart, estranged from heavy padded armor and machine guns and orders to fire. No, all he had were a well-worn trench coat and a pistol in his hands, and a heart that thumped fast and erratic as the team approached their target. His partner strode by his side, just as removed as he was, but clinging to hope he didn't have.

It ordinarily wouldn't call the attention of heavily armed cops, but as it stood, the wilting little shack buried in the woods was exactly what they were looking for. Blaine heard the standard calls of 'F.B.I., come out, we have you surrounded!' and the movement of loaded guns, but he was drifting. Something was gnawing at him from the inside, some horrible notion that they'd made a mistake somehow--

One of the cops kicked down the door, and a young man stood terrified in the beams of their flashlights. He was as non-threatening as they came--sandy hair, a dusting of freckles across his face, a private schoolboy uniform. He was someone's shy teenage son, someone's awkward nephew. He was also covered in blood.

"Lord have mercy--" the boy cried as he was forced to his knees, cuffed and read his rights. Mike was in there with them, and Blaine heard his partner swear loudly. Blaine's heart dropped, but he already knew. They were too late.

The walls of the shack were streaked with blood, made to form symbols and what Blaine could only assume to be prayers. On a decaying wooden table beneath the filth a girl's body lay prone, her torso flayed vertically in half. Blaine could see wide blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, still wet with tears. He turned away.

He heard Mike swear again and slam his fist against the wall. The teenage boy was dragged away, and Blaine walked outside. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, trying to quell the fear.

He'd failed. 

\--

The precinct was a somber place that evening, and Blaine's eyes glazed over as he stared at his paperwork. He heard footsteps, and didn't bother looking up. It was Mike, bringing him a coffee, coming to tell him--

"Don't beat yourself up, buddy. You can't win them all."

Blaine didn't answer. He accepted the coffee and took a long, deep drink, not really tasting it. It was lukewarm, anyway. Tasted old. He heard Mike sigh, a sound he was very used to hearing. His partner patted him once on the shoulder, turning away to walk back toward his desk. 

For a moment it was quiet, horribly quiet. Blaine heard Mike's pen moving, heard his partner fidget in his chair. He heard the footsteps of his colleagues outside, the ringing of telephones, the beeping of fax machines. And then he heard breath.

Ragged breath. Torn apart with fury and sorrow. Sobbing.

"Why?" came a voice, and he looked up to see the girl--long auburn hair, big blue eyes, pink innards wet and gleaming with blood. She stood outside the window above his desk, bloodied hands pressed against its surface as she stared pleadingly through the glass at him. She began to scratch at it, and Blaine tore his eyes away, trying to block it out. _Scratch scratch scratch_ \--

"Hey-- Blaine, you okay?" he heard Mike ask, and felt his partner's eyes on him. "You were grinding your teeth. Maybe you should go home, man, you've had a rough night. I'm gonna go tell the Chief."

Blaine didn't argue. He was quiet when the Chief ordered him to leave, quiet when he left the precinct to walk across the parking lot to his car. Once inside he turned the radio up as loud as he could handle, surrounded by the somewhat paradoxical sound of blasting oldies as he drove to the apartment. The streets were noisy as usual, but he could still hear it.

_Scratch scratch scratch_.

\--

Standing over the bathroom sink, Blaine splashed another handful of water over his face. He sighed and looked up at the mirror at himself, taking note of his red eyes and disheveled hair and past-five-o'clock shadow. Disgusted, he turned away and headed out the door to his bedroom.

Dressed in nothing but a pair of old sweat pants, he sat on the edge of his bed and reached for the drawer at his bedside. His hand closed around a bottle of pills, and he took hold of it, straightening up--

\--and there she was again, standing there bleeding and sobbing and screaming " _Why? Why did you let me die, why didn't you save me_!"

"Christ!" he sobbed and tore open the bottle of pills, spilling a great deal in the process. He all but shoved three of them down his throat, gulping them down with a glass of old water. Shaking, he bent over the table, fingers curled against its wooden surface, and kept his eyes closed until he could no longer hear her.

He slumped into bed. A moment was spent catching his breath and staring at his ceiling fan, and then he reached for his phone, seizing it and bringing it to his ear as he hit speeddial.

A woman's voice answered, and he said immediately "I need more."

There was a pause, and Dr. Rachel Hudson sighed deeply. "Detective Anderson, it's almost midnight. You know it's--inappropriate for me to talk to my patients after hours..."

"The pills aren't strong enough," he said pleadingly, dragging a hand over his face. "I couldn't get through the day without seeing one, Rachel. I just want to do my job, but Christ, I could barely concentrate. We were following a lead I had on a missing girl today, and I swear to god, we were a moment too late--"

"Please, calm down," said Rachel, and he heard her sit down. She was speaking in a hushed voice, which Blaine knew meant her husband was nearby. Finn Hudson was a good man, a good officer, but he doubted his good nature would extend to putting up with his wife talking to other men on the phone late at night. 

"You're the only one who knows," Blaine continued in a softer tone, exhausted. "Everyone else thinks I'm good at my job--"

"You _are_ good at your job--"

"--but you're the only one who knows about it. At first it helped, you know? But then there's-- I fuck up, I don't move fast enough, and then they show up at my goddamn apartment and beg me to tell them why I let them die."

"So you're saying you want it to go away entirely. You want more medication to make that happen."

"It's not worth it," he said wearily. "I'll do my job the normal way. I can't deal with this anymore."

There was another lengthy pause, and Rachel sighed. "I'll write you a prescription for double the dose. Take it with plenty of water before bed. And Detective Anderson-- _Blaine_ \--please try and get some rest. You'd be amazed what eight hours of sleep can do for you."

"Yeah. Goodnight, Rachel."

"Goodnight, Blaine."

He hung up the phone and closed his eyes. He didn't sleep.

\--

It was brilliantly sunny and ruthlessly cold. Blaine walked with both hands in his pockets, feet clicking on smooth pavement surrounded by thick green lawn. The path took him up a grassy knoll to a greeting-card schoolhouse, all rich red paint and sturdy walls and church bells. Mike was at his side, squinting in the sunlight and frowning.

"Didn't you go to a Catholic school?" he asked Blaine, who laughed and shook his head.

"No, Dalton was private, but it wasn't religious," he replied. "This place kind of reminds me of my alma mater, actually. It was an old building like this, very Victorian. Beautiful architecture."

"Kind of creeps me out," said Mike, shrugging. "Too...perfect."

"Well, we won't be here long."

It didn't take long for Detective Blaine Anderson to bounce out of a rut. The day after Susan Langdon was killed he was back in the office, digging up as much information as he could about her kidnapper. Both Jeffery Pine and Susan had been students at St. Teresa's Academy, which he knew had sounded familiar--and sure enough, there had been a murder linked to the campus about twenty years ago. A young boy had been attacked, raped and killed by one of its students, and the crime was said to have had the same religious slant as Susan's murder.

With some convincing, Blaine had been given the green light to investigate the school--but for a place with such bloody history, St. Teresa's was as serene and picturesque as they came. Blaine was sure he heard bluebirds chirping nearby, and he almost laughed.

The inside wasn't much different than Dalton, he thought, looking up at vaulted ceilings, ornate windows and wrought iron furnishings. The pair approached the receptionist and flashed their badges.

"Good afternoon, I'm Detective Chang and this is my partner Detective Anderson. We'd like to speak to the Headmaster please."

The Headmaster's office was large and warm, with wood-paneled walls and solid cherry furniture. The man seated at the desk was tall and willowy, with meticulously combed steel-colored hair and a sharp jawline. The lines on his face were kind, but there was something sharp in his eyes, something deeply intelligent. Blaine could sense that he was distinctly wary of them, but not in the intimidated and slightly fumbling way that civilians usually were.

Badges were flashed and introductions were given, and Blaine and Mike seated themselves across from the desk. There was a pristine view of school's backyard outside the window in Blaine's direct line of vision, and he could see woods sprawling in the distance--the same woods that he'd ran through only a day before, chasing down the missing Susan Langdon.

"I take it you're here about Miss Langdon," said Headmaster Prewitt, folding his papery hands and fixing those steely eyes on the pair of them. Blaine nodded. 

Prewitt sighed. "A terrible tragedy. She was a bright student, one of the brightest in her class. She will be sorely missed."

"Actually, Mr. Prewitt, we were hoping you'd talk to us about Jeffery Pine," said Mike, leaning forward in his chair. "I'm sure you're aware that this isn't the first crime that's been committed on this campus by one of your students. We have on record that you taught Religion here twenty years ago, before you became Headmaster, correct?"

Prewitt nodded.

"Then you were probably well informed about the murder of Kurt Hummel, then, committed by one of your students, David Karofsky? His murder scene was very similar to Susan Langdon's-- Bibles present, religious objects placed around the body, prayers written on the walls in blood..."

"Yes," said Prewitt, looking vaguely sickened. "David was a smart boy, but deeply troubled. The same could be said about Jeffery, as well." He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and Blaine saw those sharp eyes retreat somewhere for a moment, some place in the past. "Many of our students struggle, you see. Many of them face difficulties within the home, which is often why they board here. So you know anything about the legacy of St. Teresa of Ávila, Detectives?"

Mike opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but Blaine shook his head once at him before turning to face Prewitt. "What is it?" 

"She believed that ultimate suffering was the only way to truly connect with God," Prewitt explained. "In the highest state of pain she achieved the highest enlightenment. Of course, her practices were extreme, but the message is one we try to convey to our students here. Their suffering is what brings them strength, brings them enlightenment."

"Enlightenment?" said Mike skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Peace," explained Prewitt. "Understanding. Many students take comfort in these lessons, but I can't speak for all of them.  
Teenagers are--impressionable. They can take things too far, as you know."

"Understatement," said Mike, and Blaine gave him a _look_ and interjected.

"Jeffery Pine talked to us about a club he'd joined while boarding here," he explained. "He called it the 'Ecstacy Club'. Can you tell us a little about that?"

"We encourage our students to worship freely," said Prewitt, spreading his hands. "There are many student organizations in this school, all closely monitored. I assure you this one is no exception."

“What is the club, exactly, Mr. Prewitt?” asked Blaine.

“Why don’t I let its president explain it to you?” said Prewitt warmly, reaching for his phone. He paged the receptionist, asking to summon a student to his office, and Blaine took a moment to look over the office while he did. There was the standard Catholic fare--crucifixes and busts, leather-bound Bibles placed on pristine brass stands, Rennaissance oil paintings mounted high on the walls. Everything was meticulously placed and organized, and he could almost picture Headmaster Prewitt standing near one of the bookcases, polishing the bust of St. John until it gleamed.

There was a knock on the door and a female student appeared, looking quite out-of-place in the traditional atmosphere. Her red-brown hair was pulled back with a hot pink headband, and her lips and nails matched in brilliant, glittering fuschia. She smiled in a rather vapid fashion at the Headmaster, walking into the room with her hands clasped before her.

“Detectives, this is Sugar Motta. She’s the president of the Ecstacy Club.”

“Nice to meet you, Sugar,” said Blaine, shaking her hand. She nodded in that airy, detached way before smoothing down her skirt and taking a seat. 

“We were wondering if you could tell us about your club,” Blaine explained, hunching down a bit to talk to her. It was often a better idea to stoop low when speaking to a kid, he’d learned. It tended to make them feel less threatened.

The girl brightened noticeably. “Well, we’re the only religion club at the school,” she explained, her voice high and breathy. “We believe that loving God is totally more important than silly music or Biology clubs.”

“What sort of activities does your club do?” Blaine asked as Mike sat in the background, checking his watch impatiently.

“Well, we follow what St. Teresa said,” Sugar explained, smiling in that same vapid, faraway manner as she spoke. “She said ‘let me suffer or let me die’. Once a week we get together and offer all our pain to God, so we can get closer to Him. We say prayers and talk about all the bad stuff in our lives, and offer it all up.”

“So you just pray together?” Blaine asked, and she nodded enthusiastically.

“We write poetry too. I wrote one about how my cat died from a ruptured kitty spleen and how sad it made me.”

Mike bit his lip determinedly.

Blaine sat back, thinking for a moment, discreetly looking the girl over. She seemed well-rounded overall, of a bit flighty--but then he noticed a dark shape on her wrist, just beneath her sleeve.

“Is that a tattoo, Sugar?” Blaine asked, and smiled sweetly at her. “Those hurt, don’t they? I almost got one in college but I chickened out. You’re pretty brave to get one in high school. Can I see it?”

Sugar blushed and grinned and pulled up her sleeve. On her wrist was a simple black arrow, the tip pointing toward her palm. 

“I like it,” said Blaine, charming smile still in place, and Sugar fluttered her eyelashes. “Does it have a special meaning?”

“Mmhm!” Sugar reached up, pointing her hand toward the ceiling with her fingers spread. “When I reach up my hand toward Heaven, the arrow points up. But when I let my hand fall--” She lowered her hand to emphasize her point. “--it points to Hell. It means that I’ll only go to Heaven if I keep my hands stretched up to God. All of the kids in Ecstacy Club have it. We got it together.”

Blaine nodded once, hesitated for a moment, then got to his feet. “Thanks, Sugar. That’s all we need.”

Prewitt beamed at Sugar and ushered her away. She gave Blaine one last, longing glance before leaving the office. 

“Is that all you needed, Detectives? I hate to rush you, but I have a meeting--”

“Oh, no, by all means,” said Blaine, reaching out to shake Prewitt’s hand. “I think we’ve got what we need. Thanks for your cooperation.”

“Thank you, Detectives. God bless.”

\--

Mike exhaled hard as soon as they stepped out of the building, tugging his coat on tightly. “Man, I hope you got what you needed, because I really don’t feel like coming back here.”

“Not the religious type?” Blaine joked.

“I’m Buddhist.”

There was the shrill sound of a ring tone and Mike pulled his cell phone from his pocket, examining it. “It’s Tina. Hold up for a second, okay?”

Blaine nodded as his partner took his call, hands tucked in his pockets as he took the opportunity to explore the premises. He replayed the last hour over and over in his head, trying to find some thread he could grab onto to warrant further investigation. but there wasn’t a single one in sight. 

_It’s time to move on_ , spoke a voice in his head that sounded very much like Rachel’s, and he sighed. He couldn’t get the image of Susan’s blood-streaked face out of his mind, her wild eyes, _scratch scratch scratch_ \--

He moved down the steep slope of the knoll and paused as he passed the garden. He could see the figure of a boy there, seated on one of the stone benches, dressed in uniform. The boy was tall and thin and incredibly pale, but too far away for Blaine to make out anything more detailed than that. He could, however, see that the boy held a yellow bird in his hand--a canary. 

Squinting, Blaine moved cautiously closer. The boy’s gaze was fixed far away, well unaware of Blaine’s presence, and he moved his hands up toward the sky. At once he released the yellow bird, watching as it fluttered its wings and flew rapidly toward the heavens. Blaine’s eyes lingered on the boy’s face long enough to see him smile before he felt a hand clap on his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Mike, and Blaine nodded. Tearing his eyes away from the garden, he followed Mike to the car.

\--

“I knew it.”

A large file thumped on Blaine’s desk, startling him, and he frowned up at Mike. “Knew what, exactly?” he asked, gripping his pen rather tightly.

“That arrow tattoo, the one that Sugar Motta was talking about? That guy Karofsky had it too. It’s in his case file.”

Blaine’s frown disappeared and his eyes widened with interest. “So he was part of that Ecstacy Club too.” He folded his hands, thinking intently.

“So what are you gonna do?” asked Mike. “I mean, the Kurt Hummel case happened twenty years ago. It could be just a fluke.”

“Mike,” said Blaine seriously. “These are kids committing extremely violent, methodical crimes. We might be dealing with two bad eggs, sure, but I don’t think so. You can’t deny that whole St. Teresa’s thing is a little warped.”

“There’s really nothing you can do, though,” said Mike, shrugging. “People have been killing for God for centuries. Yet the church is still out there spreading the word and getting tax breaks. Faith doesn’t kill people, Blaine. People do. And frankly, I think you’re wasting your time.”

Blaine pressed his lips together and stared down at his paperwork. _Let it go_.

“Look, I’m heading out,” said Mike, grabbing his coat. “I just want you to know that whatever you do with this, you’re on your own from now on. Tina’s due any day now and I have to keep things simple for a while.”

“I hear you,” said Blaine, and he gave his partner a genuine smile. “You give her a kiss for me, okay? Take care, and--thank you.”

“No problem, buddy. Get some rest.”

_Let it go_.

\--

It was well past midnight when Blaine finally returned home. He often worked late at the office to keep his mind occupied, to keep it from straying to the things he couldn’t fix. The people he couldn’t save. 

He stepped into his apartment and began turning on the lights, then froze. 

The shower was running.

Smoothly he reached for his gun and loaded it quietly, moving with slow, light steps toward the bathroom. He could see a sliver of light beneath the door, faintly illuminating the dark hallway, and he approached it silently. In one swift, deliberate movement he pushed open the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and stepped into the steam-filled room.

Through the fogged-up shower doors he could see the flesh-colored outline of a person, and he raised his gun. His eyes flickered momentarily to the clothes all over the floor, and vaguely noted that there was something familiar about them.

Heart pounding, he looked back up at the shower door. “Step out,” he said loudly and clearly. “Step out right now and put your hands on your head.”

The water turned off. Blaine cocked his gun. Slowly the shower door opened, and a teenage boy stepped through it.

It was surreal. The boy didn’t bother grabbing a towel to dry off or cover himself, and instead stood plainly before Blaine, droplets of water rolling down endless lengths of pale skin. Blaine’s eyes couldn’t help but follow them, gaze dropping somewhere near the youth’s feet before moving back up to examine his face. 

Stunning. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline, pillowy pink lips and blue eyes that gutted him. They crawled right inside his heart and scratched at it, tearing it apart effortlessly. The young man’s sodden brunette hair clung to his brow, trailing beads of water down his cheeks, leading Blaine’s eyes down their trail again.

_It’s him_ , Blaine realized suddenly. _The boy from the schoolyard._ Something clicked--perhaps the words ‘boy’ and ‘school’, and he lowered his gun. It was just a kid, after all--no more than sixteen or seventeen--completely defenseless and obviously troubled. 

Right.

“Are you all right?” he asked hesitantly, realizing that the boy had been standing there staring at him for a full minute now. He hadn’t blinked, and Blaine felt that scratching at his heart again. _Scratch scratch scratch_. 

He assumed the boy was a runaway, or perhaps homeless-- Moving aside to set down his gun, he reached for a towel and took a cautious step forward. 

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. I’m Detective Anderson, of the city police department.”

At the mention of his name, the boy’s eyes instantly brightened. It seemed to affirm something to him, make him smile brilliantly--the same smile Blaine had seen in the schoolyard while the little bird took to the sky.

Blaine had taken another step forward with the towel--but instead of accepting it, the young man threw his arms around Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine stiffened, quite alarmed to be so suddenly pressed against a very wet, very naked young man.

“Ah--okay, okay now,” he said nervously, his palms sweating. He patted the young man awkwardly, trying feebly to move away. “Let’s get you some clean clothes, all right?”

The boy pulled away and nodded, still grinning from ear to ear.

\--

Standing at the stovetop, Blaine stirred a pot of soup and asked questions of his life.

The young boy from the shower was seated at the kitchen table, dressed in a pair of Blaine’s track pants and a loose grey sweatshirt. He hadn’t said a single word, and Blaine could feel those eyes his back as he cooked. It was unnerving, and he felt relieved when the soup was finished and he could face the boy again.

After sliding the young man a steaming bowl, he lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite him, trying to avoid making any sudden movements. The kid was obviously traumatized in some way, after all, and it wouldn’t do to startle him.

“Can you tell me your name?” 

“Kurt,” the boy responded, stirring idly at his soup. Blaine relaxed a bit, relieved that the kid was finally speaking.

“Okay, Kurt,” he said patiently, keeping his eyes as kind as possible. “Do you need some help? Is there someone I can call for you, maybe your parents?”

“My parents can’t help me,” Kurt replied. His voice was high, oddly effeminate, but beautiful to hear. It had a musical quality to it, and Blaine found himself blinking rapidly again to get his mind back on track.

“Okay, we don’t have to call them,” he said kindly. “But you need to tell me who I can call. Tell me who can help you.”

At last Kurt looked up, his fierce eyes stabbing across the table at Blaine’s, plucking them out. “You,” he said simply.”You can help me.”

Blaine frowned, deeply confused, and then he noticed something-- Kurt hadn’t touched the soup. He hadn’t tasted it at all. It could have been that the boy simply wasn’t hungry, but another distinct possibility was creeping into Blaine’s mind. He pressed his lips together hesitantly, looking from the bowl of soup to Kurt’s face, which had assumed an oddly knowing expression.

“You’re...”

“Kurt Hummel,” the boy responded, and Blaine’s stomach dropped. “You know me, right? All the files about me, all the stories? I’m pretty famous now, aren’t I?”

Blaine got to his feet, feeling vaguely panicked. He’d taken his medication as prescribed, he hadn’t seen a single spirit all that day--and besides, Kurt didn’t look like one of them at all. When they appeared, they bore all the wounds of their death, and they weren’t capable of doing things like showering or stirring soup. They certainly couldn’t sit and hold a civil conversation. Kurt was functioning like a living human, which didn’t make any sense at all. 

His eyes narrowed. “If this is some kind of joke...”

Kurt didn’t say a word. Instead he pushed the bowl of soup aside and got to his feet, turning around. He reached down to hitch up the shirt he was wearing, and Blaine made a movement as if to stop him.

“What are you--?” He froze in the middle of the sentence. Kurt had lifted the shirt enough to expose his back, a length of smooth, pale, almost glowing skin--horribly marred by a vicious-looking scar. It ran from the bottom of his neck to just above his hips, and formed the unmistakable shape of a cross.

The Kurt Hummel murder case wasn’t an easy one to forget. What had been done to the boy was unspeakable, but perhaps the most memorable part was the giant cross that had been carved on his back by his killer. Blaine fell back in his seat, feeling winded.

“What do you want?” he said before he could help it. There was simply no other way to put it. Kurt didn’t seem affronted by the question, though. He lowered the shirt again and moved to sit back at the table, fixing Blaine with those sharp eyes again.

“Do you believe in angels, Detective Anderson?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals specifically with the non-con aspect of Kurt's case, so tread carefully. It also includes very strong violence and character death.

Blaine had stopped going to church after his parents died.

Before then, though, he’d loved it--especially midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, when he got to hold a candle like the grown-ups did. He’d loved how warm and beautiful the inside of the chapel was, how it smelled like incense and burning candles. It was well before he even rightly knew what sexuality was, much less his own, and everything was so much simpler. There, he felt like he belonged.

A drunk driver and a devastating crash changed everything, and Blaine stopped going to church. Its warm, sweet-smelling halls didn’t feel welcoming anymore. They felt empty and cold, and he felt like God had lied to him.

Then he started seeing dead people, and he stopped believing in God altogether.

Sitting there across from a boy whose presence seemed to shake the world around him, he felt profoundly unsettled for the first time since he’d seen the ghosts of his parents in his bedroom twenty-six years ago. It was one thing to be faced with spirits he could chase away with pills-- It was quite entirely another to be stared down by a boy who claimed to be a servant of God.

 _Claimed to be_. “No. I don’t.”

Kurt nodded. “Because you’ve never seen one?”

“Because they don’t exist.”

“You sound so sure,” said Kurt, and he got to his feet. He moved toward Blaine and sat on the edge of the table, right next to where the older man was sitting.

Blaine shrugged and smiled bitterly. “To be honest, I’m not sure about anything anymore.” The mirth left his face and he looked up at Kurt. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Kurt smiled, his eyes glittering. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said softly. “For a long, long time. You’re very special. That thing that you can do? No one else can do it. You’re the only one. Trust me, I’ve checked.”

“I know,” said Blaine, sighing. “But I can’t... It’s too much of a burden, Kurt, you have to understand that.”

“You think I don’t know about pain?” said the boy, raising two finely arched eyebrows. “About suffering?”

“No, I-- I know. I just-- Please, Kurt, just tell me what you want.”

Kurt moved a little closer, hitching his legs up so he was all but perched on the edge of the table. The pants were loose around his ankles, the sleeves of the sweatshirt hanging low around his wrists. He was so thin.

“I want you to find who killed me.”

Blaine’s brows tightened and he frowned at Kurt. “But your killer was caught. David Karofsky confessed to the murder a week after it happened. He’s been institutionalized for twenty years.”

Kurt’s eyes flashed and he shook his head. “It wasn’t him,” he said fiercely. “He didn’t kill me.”

There was a long pause. “...What? They found DNA evidence--”

“I didn’t say he didn’t hurt me,” said Kurt, and he looked away. He suddenly looked much  
younger, and Blaine felt an urge to reach out and take his hand. He didn’t. “He just wasn’t the one who killed me. Someone else did, and you need to find them for me.”

“Them...?”

Kurt nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. Blaine moved closer--and this time, he did reach out and touch Kurt, placing one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Even underneath the warm sweatshirt, his skin felt ice cold.

“Kurt...what do you remember?”

 

_It had been wet and cold. Frost was clinging to the grass, and his bare feet stung as he stumbled through it, running as fast as he could. They’d caught him, though. Hands had seized his upper arms and thrown him down, tying a cloth bag over his head._

_Cold steel had pressed against his throat. “Come with us or we’ll slit your throat right here.”_

 

“David appeared at my school one night, when I was walking to my car from a late rehearsal. He grabbed me and pulled me into his car, then took me to St. Teresa’s. I managed to get away and run, but they caught me. They were waiting for me.”

 

_”Wh-what’s going on? Where are you taking me? Who are you?”_

_They ignored everything he said. He stumbled along in darkness, terrified and disoriented, until they finally threw him onto the ground. Frost prickled beneath his body, soaking through his clothes, and he could feel mud between his fingers from where he broke his own fall._

_The cloth bag was ripped from his head and he stared up at David Karofsky’s horrified face._

 

“I didn’t know who they were. They never showed their faces. They were all wearing masks, but I knew they were kids like me. The only voice I recognized was David’s.”

Kurt started shaking, and Blaine put his other hand on the opposite shoulder. “It’s all right, Kurt,” he said softly. “You don’t have to tell me everything now. We can just--” He faltered. Did angels sleep? Kurt had taken a shower, sure, but he didn’t seem interested in eating, and--god, this was complicated to a comical degree.

“I’ll go,” said Kurt softly, cutting Blaine off. “I’ll go for now, but I’ll come back. I won’t leave for good until you help me. I can’t leave for good.”

Blaine frowned, taking his hands from Kurt’s shoulders and stepping back. “What do you mean?”

Kurt looked up at Blaine, raising his eyebrows. “What do you think happens to people after they’re murdered, Detective Anderson? They just wander around as ghosts until they get bored and decide to move on and rest? It doesn’t work like that.” He paused for a moment, his expression dark. “We’re stuck here.”

Blaine felt his heart drop into his stomach and sink into it, surrounded, rotting. He thought about the ghost of Susan Langdon, and every spirit he’d seen before, trapped and bleeding and begging him to save them--he thought about his _parents_ \-- Christ, he’d chased them away, hadn’t he? He’d taken pills to make them go away, when they _couldn’t_ go away, not ever--

He all but slumped down in his chair, looking stunned.

“I don’t understand what you want me to do,” he said in a flat voice, staring at the tiling on the kitchen floor. “These people you’re talking about aren’t on file. I already told you that Karofsky confessed.”

“Then talk to him,” Kurt suggested. The tone of his voice was firm, unrelenting, and Blaine could feel those eyes on him again. He didn’t have to see them to know how icy they looked.

He’d been about to give up. He’d let this--this ability, this _curse_ transform his life and he’d been through with it. Rachel had given him more pills, and it had almost been over--no more spirits, no more regrets, no more unfulfilled promises. For a moment, he thought he’d been free, but now...

His eyes moved over the form of the boy seated on the table, at those skinny arms and slender shoulders and brittle hands. Kurt had been sixteen when he died--sixteen when he’d been dragged into the woods near St. Teresa’s, brutally assaulted and viciously murdered. Blaine thought about seeing him in the schoolyard, in that uniform-- He’d been a student, not yet released into the world, a little bird waiting anxiously for the moment to spread his wings and soar--until one horrible night, when it was all taken away from him.

Slowly Blaine reached out and took Kurt’s hand. It was so cold, and it felt as if it would break if he squeezed too hard. He bit his lip, just looking at Kurt, at those eyes that shouldn’t have been so hard. They should have been wide and hopeful, looking to the sky, filled with dreams.

“All right,” said Blaine softly. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

Kurt’s face lit up with a beautiful smile, and he reached out to hug Blaine again, This time Blaine let him, if only to keep the young boy (ghost? angel?) from seeing the tears in his eyes.

\--

Renwood Asylum for the Criminally Insane was a three-hour drive from where Blaine was stationed, so he booked a hotel and made plans to travel there for the weekend. A steady, cold rain was streaming down his windshield as he drove to the asylum that Saturday, dark foliage blurring on either side, the sky slate grey. The road wound up the side of a hill, and he was the only one on it.

His phone rang. “Yeah?””

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Blaine sighed. “Hey, Mike.”

“I just got your message. You’re driving all the way out to that loony bin in the middle of nowhere for _what_ reason? What are you trying to prove? Does the Chief know about this?”

“How’s Tina?”

“She’s fine. She had a few contractions last night but they stopped-- Why are you changing the subject?”

“I’m doing this on my own, Mike,” said Blaine, just as the vast stone building moved into his line of sight through the sheet of rain. “Just like you said I should. Don’t worry, all right? I know what I’m doing.”

There was a pause and a heavy sigh. “Whatever. Don’t get too comfy in there, all right?”

“Goodbye, Mike.”

He slipped his phone in the pocket of his coat as he passed through the gates, making his way through security. As the guards checked his credentials he looked over the face of the building, an aged monolith straight out of a Vincent Price film. It was made even more menacing by the cold grey clouds around it, the sheets of rain that poured from all sides.

The inside was far more modern, all white walls and clean coats, and Blaine shed his own as he was escorted to the far end of the facility.

He paged through his files as he walked, trying to form a mental picture of the man he was about to meet, but it was difficult; Karofsky had been seventeen at the time of the murder, after all. Blaine’s eyes examined the photo, seeing a tall and heavyset boy with sharp eyebrows, thin lips and dead-looking eyes. They didn’t look like the sort of eyes a teenager should have had, he thought, and suddenly thought of Kurt. He felt a flash of anger he couldn’t quite define, biting his lip until he found himself standing in front of the door to what looked very much like an interrogation room. 

The man seated at the table within-- a security guard at his side--looked nothing like the boy in the photograph. The softness around his jaw was gone, replaced by square angles and hollowed cheekbones, surrounded by wiry facial hair. Dark circles hung beneath hollow-looking eyes, and he looked skittishly up at Blaine as if itching to get up and run.

Blaine took a deep breath, steeling himself, then sat at the table across from Karofsky. He looked the man dead-on, establishing eye contact.

“Good morning, David,” he said amiably. “I’m Detective Anderson. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

He hesitated for a long moment, then looked up at the security guard. “Would you mind giving us a moment, please? Stand outside the door, maybe?” He winced as the tall man gave him a _look_ , and waved a hand. “We’ll only be a moment.”

The guard hesitated then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Blaine could see the back of his head through the small window, and he took another deep breath before facing Karofsky again.

God, those eyes. Karofsky looked as though he hadn’t slept in years. 

“David,” said Blaine calmly. “I’m not here to get you into trouble. I’m off the clock right now. If you cooperate, I could help get you a few more privleges around here, pull a few strings.”

Karofsky didn’t say a word. He kept staring at Blaine with those hollow eyes, like two holes in a dead animal’s skull. Blaine wondered again whether he was wasting his time. 

He took out the files and spread them over the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Karofsky’s gaze flicker down toward them, saw him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“That’s right,” said Blaine, and his voice wasn’t so kind now. “It’s about Kurt, David. We’re going to talk about what happened to Kurt Hummel twenty years ago.”

Those hollow eyes held an inkling of fear now, and Blaine chose a photo--an image of Kurt’s body, pale and twisted and covered in blood--pushing it across the table toward Karofsky. The other man immediately turned away, looking sick.

“Why are you so reluctant to look at it?” Blaine pressed him, pushing the photograph even closer. “You did it, after all. You were the one who carved a cross into his back, pushed nails into his hands...”

He could see Karofsky’s jaw clench and begin to quiver, and kept going.

“Tied up his arms with barbed wire and threw him upside down in a wooden casket... It took him hours to die, David. Hours of terror and bleeding and agony.” His fingers curled on the table, tightening into fists, and he didn’t even realize it. “He finally threw up and choked on his own vomit, before he could even bleed to death, and you--”

“I didn’t.”

Blaine stopped, fell silent, and gave Karofsky his full attention. The other man was shaking his head, looking distressed.

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t think they’d do that.”

Utterly still, Blaine stayed silent, hoping Karofsky would elaborate. The other man had gone back to clenching his jaw, though, grinding his teeth together. Blaine steeled himself and kept pushing.

“Who, David? Who did that?”

Karofsky shook his head, and he looked near tears. He stared at the wall for a few long moments, then finally turned to look at Blaine, desperation in his eyes.

“I didn’t know they were gonna do that. They didn’t tell me. I--I just wanted--”

He faltered, and Blaine resisted the urge to reach out and shake him. “Wanted what?”

Breathing heavily, Karofsky stared at Blaine as if expecting to get sympathy. “I just wanted to fuck him.”

 

_It was lunchtime, and Dave stood in line, a friend at his side. He’d dropped his wallet, and the other boy had leaned down to pick it up. A photo had slipped out. Before Dave could reach down and grab the photo, the dark-haired boy held it up. “Who’s this, Dave?”_

_Dave turned red snatched it back. “No one.”_

_“Why do you have a picture of a guy in your wallet?” the other boy asked, eyes narrowing, and Dave shoved the photo--Kurt Hummel’s class picture--back inside it. He paid for his lunch and quickly moved away._

_The boy caught up with him. Dave glared as he took a seat next to him at the table, leaning forward and offering a sympathetic look._

_“The hell do you want?”_

_“To help,” the boy said. “If you have...urges, things that are paining you that you want to heal, offer to God...you should join the club I’m in.”_

_The boy reached over and tugged up his sleeve, baring a tattoo on his wrist in the shape of an arrow._

 

Blaine kept his face carefully neutral, though his fingernails were digging into his palms now. “Do you know anything about the Ecstacy Club, David? I know that you were involved with them in high school.”

Karofsky shrugged, but Blaine saw his eyes flicker. “Maybe. It was twenty years ago.”

“How about that tattoo on your wrist? What made you decide to get one like that?”

 

_”What suffering would you like to offer up to God today, David?”_

_Dave folded his arms on the table, looking miserable. The kids seated all around him were fixing him with their attention, and his face burned._

_“There’s a boy,” he admitted, gritting his teeth. “He’s always in my head. I know it’s wrong, but I-- I can’t stop thinking about him. He went to my old school.”_

_“Is that why you transferred here?” asked the girl to his left, and he nodded._

 

“I just wanted to be normal,” said Dave after a while, folding his arms across his chest protectively. “So I left my old school and joined their stupid club. I thought it would help me--” He faltered again, his lip twitching.

“Help you what?” said Blaine encouragingly, though he dreaded the answer.

“Get him out of my head,” Karofsky growled. “Little fairy princess-- He’d walk around the halls of my old school like he fucking owned it, just flaunting how--how much a fag he was, how much of a _freak_...”

Blaine ignored the way the slur made him feel, listening intently as Karofsky finally began to open up.

“People would give him shit for it every day, and he’d just shrug it off. And the worst thing? He was so fucking _nice_ to people, to his friends. So sweet. He was like a--” He squirmed again in his chair, his face red. “Like an angel.”

 

_It was late at night, and Dave held Kurt’s photo in one hand as he lay on his back in bed. His other hand was down the front of his pants, frantically stroking himself as he studied Kurt’s features in the soft lamplight._

_He’d just finished when the door opened and his roommate stepped in. Horrified, he shoved the photo underneath his pillow and straightened up._

_“Get out of bed, Dave,” said his roommate, paying no heed to what he may have walked in on._

_“The club is holding a special meeting tonight. You’ll need your coat.”_

 

“They kept asking me about him,” Karofsky continued. “Asking me to talk about him. I started to get pissed off. It was like--I was there to forget about him, but they wouldn’t let me. They said it would help me heal, but it just made me worse. And then one night...”

Blaine leaned forward again, unable to help himself. “Yes?”

Karofsky’s eyes turned dark again, sinking into his face. “They told me to go get him. Take him and bring him back to St. Teresa’s with me. They promised they had a plan that would heal me, and hell--what choice did I have? I was going crazy.” His big hands curled into fists, just as Blaine’s were. 

 

_They pulled the cloth bag away, and Kurt looked up at Dave Karofsky’s horrified face._

_“D-David?” Kurt croaked, eyes flickering with recognition, and Dave looked around at the others, begging for an explanation._

_“Now’s your chance, David,” came a female voice from beneath one of the masks. “We’ll turn our backs. This is the boy that made you suffer, right? Take what’s owed to you, what you’ve earned.” She paused as she turned her back, and the other three followed suit._

_“No one will hear him scream out here.”_

_Dave was on his knees, hovering over the prone form of the terrified boy. Kurt listened in horrified silence to what the others had been saying, and the moment Dave drew closer he began to scream and struggle in earnest. Dave hit him, and he fell back on the wet grass, disheveled and dirty, tears streaming down his pale face._

_He looked so beautiful. Dave started panting, staring down at those crystalline blue eyes, still so bright even in the darkness. It had started drizzling, and droplets of water fell upon Kurt’s face, on his white skin. So beautiful._

_Like an angel._

_“Please David... Please don’t,” Kurt had started pleading, but Dave had already unbuckled his belt._

 

“They told me to do it,” said Karofsky in a strained tone of voice. “They _made_ me.”

Blaine felt sick, and it took a surprising amount of willpower not to leave the room and tell the guards to lock Karofsky in solitary confinement and flush the key down the toilet.

Instead, he got to his feet, hands pressed against the surface of the table. He was a small man, particularly compared to Karofsky, but his short temper well made up for what he lacked in height.

“Who was it, David,” he said harshly, staring Karofsky down. “Tell me names.”

Karofsky’s eyes were round with fear, and Blaine wasn’t egotistical enough to assume that it was directed at him. “I can’t,” the big man said, staring at the wall.

“Why the hell not?” Blaine spat, his voice rising. He didn’t care if the security cameras were recording him harassing a patient; as far as he was concerned, yelling at Karofsky was the only way he could keep from hitting him in the jaw. “Why are you protecting them after what they did to that boy, David? What you helped them do?”

“I can’t,” said Karofsky again, his voice gruff, and he turned away. It just made Blaine angrier.

“Goddamn you! Don’t you think that boy deserves justice? Don’t you think that’s the least fucking thing you can do for him? You don’t have a goddamn thing to lose-- _Tell me_ , Karofsky!”

Karofsky opened his mouth as if to speak--and then suddenly, horribly, he began to drool. His eyes rolled back into his head as his body began to convulse violently, and Blaine sprang back in shock and horror.

“Help!” he cried. “Someone help!” 

Almost as soon as he’d shouted the door flew open and a handful of orderlies rushed in, accompanied by the guard from before. The former moved to tend to Karofsky--who had fallen from his chair, spitting and convulsing--and the latter gave Blaine a look that clearly said _Get the hell out of here_. Blaine didn’t need telling twice.

As ruffled and disturbed as he felt from what he’d witnessed, the greatest feeling he had as he left Renwood Asylum was a pervading sense of loss--a sense that he’d failed Kurt.

\--

When he returned to his hotel room, Kurt was there. The boy was stretched across the bed, pale skin a stark contrast against the dark sheets. As usual, Blaine felt winded just from looking at him.

The bright blue eyes widened upon his arrival, and the pure hope they conveyed made Blaine’s heart ache. The boy sat up, perched at the edge of the bed in that oddly catlike way that was rapidly becoming quite characteristic of him. 

Blaine shed his coat and shoes, taking his sweet time in approaching Kurt. When he finally did, he stayed standing, unwilling to infringe on the boy’s personal space in any way. 

“Kurt, I...” he began, and saw the boy’s shoulders droop at the sheer tone of his voice. “I spoke with Karofsky. He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Nothing?” said Kurt incredulously, and his eyes narrowed, cutting. Like glass. “What do you mean _nothing_? What did you ask him?”

“Everything I was legally allowed to ask him, and then some.” Blaine gave up and sat down on the bed beside Kurt, dragging his hands through his hair. 

“And what did he tell you?”

Blaine looked over at Kurt, hands falling into his lap and curling into fists again. “He told me what happened. What he did to you. And he said that there were four people there that night.”

“I know,” said Kurt, his voice high and distant. “I remember four. I remember their voices.”

“Well, the good news is that we know they were all St. Teresa’s students,” said Blaine, angling his body slightly toward Kurt’s. “We can do a thorough investigation based on Karofsky’s claims, see what we can come up with.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out his tape recorder, brandishing it. "It's all right here, see? So it wasn't a total loss. At least we have something to go on now."

Kurt had gone quite silent. Blaine tilted his head slightly, regarding him.

"Could I take a shower?" Kurt asked before Blaine could say another word. Blaine's eyebrows lifted; Kurt had taken three showers today already. He nodded, though, and Kurt gave him a brief smile before disappearing to the bathroom.

Blaine tried to understand. It wasn't as though Kurt _needed_ to shower. Maybe he just wanted to get warm; his skin was always so cold, after all. Then again, he thought, maybe Kurt was just trying to wash off dirt that never seemed to go away.

\--

Blaine slept fitfully that night.

The dream had started almost immediately. One moment he'd been lying on his back in bed, a still-smoking cigarette butt by his side, and the next he was on his feet and tugging on his coat. He'd left the motel, walked out into the rain, got into his car and drove. The winding road disappeared before him, and he was back at Renwood Asylum within a half hour.

There were no questions asked and there was no hesitation. He strode purposefully through the halls and managed to convice the orderlies to let him in to see Karofsky one more time--he flaunted the evidence, abused his badge, practically extorted them. It all seemed to exist somewhere he wasn't, even though his body was moving.

No-- His body wasn't moving. Someone was moving it.

He stepped within Karofsky's room. The man hadn't been sleeping; he was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands folded as he stared at the floor. Upon hearing the sound of Blaine's footsteps, Karofsky's thin eyebrows knitted together and he rose from the bed.

"The hell are you doing here?" he demanded, looking both angry and apprehensive. Above him, a security camera shorted out and went black.

Blaine said nothing, just walked a few steps forward. All of a sudden Karfosky's expression changed. The anger and confusion were gone, replaced by something much more complex--terror, regret, anguish, and something horribly like longing.

"You...how..." Karofsky fell to his knees.

Blaine opened his mouth to speak, but a voice came out that was not his own. it was high and melodic, soft and sweet yet cold. Chilling in its innocence, its lack of pretense. 

"Hello, David." 

"You... Kurt," Karofsky sobbed. "You can't be... You're dead, it can't-- I'm going fucking crazy, being here, I've gone fucking nuts--"

"Shhh," Kurt (Blaine?) whispered. His expression was calm and detached as he observed the shrunken, cowering man on the ground at his feet, but his eyes were cold and utterly unforgiving. "It's all right, David. Everything's over now."

Karofsky looked up at Kurt, his face horribly pale, and shook his head. "Jesus... You're really here? It's really... God."

Two big hands found Kurt's hips, and Karfosky slumped forward, his forehead resting against Kurt's abdomen. "I'm so sorry. Jesus-- You know I didn't mean for them to do that, Kurt. I didn't want them to. I never wanted-- Please, you have to believe me."

Kurt didn't move. He just stared down at Karofsky with those chilling eyes, unblinking. "I know, David," he said softly. 

"You--you do?"

"I do." 

Karofsky's hands fell from Kurt's hips and he let out a sob of relief, shaking his head. "God, I knew you wouldn't-- We knew each other, right? I wouldn't kill you. I didn't kill you. I took the rap for it, 'cause I felt so bad, you know? I didn't think they'd--"

"David," said Kurt coldly, cutting off Karofsky's babbling. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Falling silent, Karofsky looked up at Kurt again, his expression oddly childlike as he shook his head. Kurt took a step forward.

"I'm here so you can tell me the names of my killers," he continued, his voice deadly-sweet. "You'll tell me, won't you David? Because you feel so bad?"

Karofsky's face turned paler, his sunken eyes even more pronounced then before. "I can't," he said in a tiny, frightened voice. "I can't, Kurt, they-- They did something to me. I can't say their names, or..."

Kurt pressed his lips together, pushing back his frustration. He tilted his head, giving Karofsky an expression of mock-understanding.

"I think you can try," he said soothingly. "Just try, David. You love me, don't you?"

The man on the ground--once so big, so strong, so in command--let out a sound like a frightened animal, covering his face with his hands. He began to rock back and forth, sobbing and shaking his head.

"I do. I do, Kurt, I love you so much...so fucking much..."

"Then tell me." 

Kurt lowered himself to his knees, to Karofsky's level, and tilted his head to look the other man in the eye. Karofsky stared for a long moment, then opened his mouth. Instead of words, however, blood began to spill from his lips. He gagged, doubling over, and his body began to convulse violently. 

Despite this, Kurt did not move. "Tell me, David!"

"Lis--" A wave of blood gushed from Karofsky's mouth, sweat gliding down his reddened face. "Lisb-- Lisbeth--" The words were once again cut off as he vomited another round of blood, and Kurt could see more begin to gush from the man's ears and nostrils.

"Say it," Kurt hissed. "Say the name, goddamnit!"

"Lisbeth!" Karofsky cried, curled on the floor in agony. It seemed as though every breath was causing immeasurable pain, and the words were like bullets fired deep within his organs. "Lisb--oh God, oh _Christ_!--" 

"Finish!"

"Lis-- Lisbeth Frankel! Oh, Jesus--" Karofsky fell forward onto the ground, sobbing in a pool of his own blood. He curled there like a wounded animal--a bloody, wretched mess--and Kurt got to his feet. 

"Thank you," he said simply as Karfosky rolled onto his back, gasping for air. "That should do for now."

"P-please... Kurt..." Karofsky tried helplessly to roll onto his side, reaching for Kurt's foot. "I need help... I'm... I feel like I'm d-dying, Kurt--"

Kurt stepped out of Karofsky's reach, disgusted. He turned to leave.

"B-but Kurt, I... I did that for you, I said I didn't mean f-for that to happen, I-- I didn't kill you, Kurt..."  
Kurt was silent for a long moment--and when he looked down at Karofsky's bloody form, there was something like fire in his eyes.

"I was crying," he said softly.

Karofsky looked up at him helplessly, and he took another step forward. The room's dim lighting stretched his shadow across the far wall, and two large shapes seemed to form at its back. They stretched wide, spreading across the wall like ink.

"I was crying for my Dad."

_"No, no-- Please don't, I want-- I want my Daddy, please!"_

Another step. "I begged you to stop but you didn't. You held me down and did it anyway." Another. "I cried and screamed but you _did it anyway_ , David."

Terror was written on Karofsky's face where there never was before. He'd been frightened before, certainly, but this was different. This was the fear of something unimaginable, something beyond the tiny world he lived in. This was fear of something that didn't exist in his lifetime--it existed in what waited for him when it was over.

"Oh God...no... Kurt, I'm... I'm sorry... Oh God, have mercy..."

There was nothing calm or collected about Kurt's expression anymore. He stared down at Karofsky with utter contempt, pain and fury twisting his face into something both beautiful and horrifying. As he stepped toward Karofsky, the bleeding started anew--but this time, it came from Karofsky's eyes. The man wailed, touching around his eyes and staring down at his bloodied hands in horror.

Kurt was close now. As Karofsky sobbed and clawed at his face, Kurt got to one knee and regarded him. He was silent for a long time, merely observing the misery before him, and then he opened his mouth again to say one final sentence.

"I was a virgin."

Karofksy's eyes burst in their sockets.

The small room was filled with the sound of screams as Karfosky rolled on the ground in agony, and Kurt got to his feet again. His voice was raised now, shouting over the anguished howls.

"Go to Hell!" he cried, tears streaking his own face as he watched the man die. "Go to Hell, you animal!"

The screams turned to pitiful gasps for air, and then it was over. The lifeless body of David Karofsky lay slumped on the floor, eyeless and still oozing blood, and Kurt got to his feet. He turned away, leaving the corpse behind as he silently left the room. 

He left the asylum and drove to the motel, and Blaine Anderson woke up in bed. There were tears on his face.

\--

Bent over the motel room sink, Blaine splashed one more handful of water over his face for good measure. Christ, that dream... Even with an ability like his own, he'd never experienced a more vivid nightmare. Taking a deep breath, he raked a hand through his hair before leaving the bathroom and shuffling back toward his bed.

Kurt was gone. Blaine had no idea where the boy went to when he wasn't busily haunting him, but he was grateful for the small reprieve. 

At least he thought he was.

Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed his wallet and held it above him as he lay on his back. He examined the photographs within--his eyes lingering on one in particular--and felt an odd pain in his chest. He'd felt grateful for Kurt's disappearance only a moment ago, but now--  
It would have been nice, perhaps, to wake up from that nightmare and have someone there on the other side of the bed to comfort him.

Distinctly ashamed of himself, Blaine closed the wallet and set it back down next to his gun. He finished off the cigarette butt that had waited in the ashtray there, and finally closed his eyes.

He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing.

It was still dark outside--bright blue, the barely-there light of dawn. Groggy, Blaine reached around for his cell phone and pressed it clumsily against his ear. 

"Hello?"

"Blaine!" came Mike's voice loud in his ear, making him wince. "I'm in the office and this just got in-- Dave Karofsky was found dead in his room this morning."

 _That_ woke Blaine up. He sat up in bed, one hand raking through his curls as he stared at the wall in disbelief. "What?"

"That's not even the most fucked up thing, Blaine. They said last person in his room was _you_. What the hell were you doing there so late? What do you think you're playing at?"

Blaine got to his feet, genuinely distressed. "No, Mike, they've got it wrong, I wasn't--"

"They have it all on record. You barged in around midnight demanding to see Karofsky, they couldn't get a word in edgewise. Their security camera malfunctioned right after that, so they have no way of knowing the exact time of death. Listen, they might try to pin this on you--"

"Mike, I'm telling you, I wasn't--"

"--but there's nothing on Karofsky's body that suggests homicide. He died of internal injuries--his eyes literally burst in their sockets, and he had a heart attack. No evidence of physical trauma, no fingerprints, no murder weapon... They've got nothing, Blaine, but if I were you I would get your ass back here and start talking. _Right now_."

Speechless, Blaine nodded before he realized Mike couldn't see him. When he spoke his voice was soft, stunned. "Uh--yeah. Okay."

"I mean it, Blaine. I don't know what's gotten into you, but you better stop all this crazy shit before you get fired or worse."

"Okay. I know."

There was a pause. "You're my best friend, Blaine. I'm worried about you, okay? Come home and let's fix this."

Blaine simply hummed in reply as he got dressed, tying his tie while he balanced the phone on his shoulder. He heard Mike sigh again, and then they said goodbye.

Half-dressed, Blaine stood before the mirror in his bedroom, staring at the phone in his hand. He then looked up at his own reflection, and saw an expression of utter confusion and horror there. For a moment his eyes reflected nothing but panic, but comprehension slowly began to dawn within them.

It hadn't been a nightmare.

\--

Being on the other side of an interrogation was utterly bizarre. It was quite fortunate that Blaine was who he was, as he had an excellent lawyer and the full support of the Chief and everyone else at the precinct. The Chief kept insisting on what a fantastic agent he was, and Blaine had the record to prove it.

Lying wasn't easy. He stopped denying that he'd visited Renwood that night, and made it very clear that he'd left before Karofsky had died. With no evidence to the contrary, he was released with an apology to top off his guilt.

He was supposed to call Mike and explain to him how everything went, but he didn't. Instead, he drove straight to his apartment, exhausted and angry.

When he arrived he stood in the kitchen, listening for any indication that he wasn't alone. He was greeted with silence, and he sighed in frustration and raised his voice.

"Kurt? Kurt, if you can hear me-- Come where I can see you. We need to talk."

Silence. Blaine cursed under his breath, then went to the refrigerator for a beer. He pried it open and straightened up, taking a long drink, and the sound of a voice nearly made him spit it back out.

"You shouldn't drink so much."

After carefully swallowing his beer, Blaine turned to see Kurt standing in the kitchen doorway. The boy was dressed in a long, loose-fitting sweater that fell to his knees, and it slipped slightly off one shoulder as he walked toward Blaine.

"I watch you, you know. You go through lots of beer. Busch, right? My dad used to drink that kind."

Blaine took another drink as if to spite Kurt, gripping the bottle tightly. His jaw was set, his dark eyebrows drawn tight in surpressed fury.

Kurt looked confused. "Are you...angry?"

Unable to help himself, Blaine let out a bitter laugh. "Am I angry," he repeated, his tone derisive. He set down his beer on the counter, the sound of glass hitting granite echoing through the kitchen. 

He wheeled on Kurt. "Why do you sound so surprised? Do you think I'd be happy with you after what you did?"

Kurt's face fell and he looked genuinely hurt. "I just--"

"You just _what_? Accidentally _possessed_ me? You had no right to do that, Kurt. No one has any right to do that. It was terrifying, and-- Christ, Kurt, I nearly lost my job! I could have been thrown in jail!"

"I didn't think that would happen!" Kurt replied defensively, his eyes hardening. "I didn't intend to _kill_ David, I just--"

"You just thought you could barge in there and do what I couldn't," Blaine said darkly. "As if you have any idea what you're doing. You're _sixteen_ , Kurt--"

"Don't!" said Kurt shrilly. "Don't say that!"

"It doesn't matter," Blaine growled, taking another step forward. "What you did was--" He raked a hand through his hair, trying to find the words to describe how _horrifying_ it had been--to be forced out of control of his own body, reduced to a mere bystander as his eyes and mouth and feet were yanked around as if on strings... 

When he looked at Kurt, the expression he saw was complex. The boy looked remorseful, but there was something in his eyes that looked very much like betrayal.

"You promised you'd help me," Kurt said in a low voice, attacking Blaine with his eyes again--and Blaine hated it, _hated_ the way this boy made him feel. The guilt was terrible, and it just made Blaine all the more angry.

"I did!" he shouted. "But I didn't consent to have you _use_ my body like that-- Don't you get it, Kurt? You of all people-- How is that any different from what Karofsky did to you?"

The kitchen was filled with ugly silence, and Blaine's stomach dropped. By God, he couldn't have found a stupider thing to say. _Christ_ , why had he said that--

Instantly remorseful, he reached out a hand toward Kurt, shaking his head.

"I-- Kurt, I'm sorry, I..."

The damage had been done. Blaine had one more look at Kurt's pale, horrified face before the boy turned and left the room. Cursing, Blaine followed him--but there was nothing.

Kurt had gone.

\--

The fireplace was ablaze, and Blaine finished his sixth beer. He set the empty bottle down, staring into the flames as he retreated somewhere in his mind.

He remembered the first ghost he ever saw. It had been a child, a little girl, with long black braids and pink galoshes. It had been a year after his parents died, and despite everything he'd remained a fairly light-hearted child--odd, perhaps, unique in his personality and interests, but happy. 

A few kids had been bullying him that day, and he'd ran off to the park to skip stones across the lake. The little girl had joined him, and after a while she'd held out her hand for him to take. _'Come on,'_ she'd said. _I'm going to show you something.'_

Delighted to have made a new friend so easily, he'd eagerly grasped her hand and followed her. She'd led him through the nearby woods, along a twisted path until they reached a clearing.

It was filled with gravestones.

Blaine had looked at the girl in confusion, and in doing so noticed something he hadn't seen before-- A single stab wound was on the side of her neck, short but deep, visible when she'd tossed one of her braids behind her back. Blaine had been horrified, but he hadn't ran away.

She'd looked so sad.

 _'My mommy's here,'_ she explained. _I want to go see her really bad, but I can't yet. My daddy doesn't know I'm dead. He knows the bad man took me, so he's still looking for me. I want him to stop.'_

She'd looked over at Blaine pleadingly. _'Could you tell him for me?'_

Blaine's memories were cut short by a distant sound. He got to his feet and stepped out of the living room, wandering toward the hallway, and he heard the sound grow louder as he drew closer to the bathroom.

Crying.

Tentatively he opened the door, and found Kurt. The boy was slumped on the floor, clearly sobbing, his back to the door. Blaine bit his lip and drew closer, not wanting to startle him.

“Kurt... Look, Kurt, I’m so sorry... I shouldn’t have said that, it was so fucking stupid, I-- Kurt?”

He’d circled around Kurt just enough to see the boy from the side--and he froze. There was blood. It was all over the boy’s hands, soaked through his clothes-- Frantic, Blaine moved forward, grasping Kurt’s wrists gently to tug them away from his face. Panicked visions of what might have happened tore across his mind, and none of them made any kind of sense, but then he realized it--

It was coming from Kurt’s eyes. Kurt was crying blood.

The boy let out a whimper and looked up at Blaine, who quickly snapped out of it. “Okay... Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured, putting an arms around the boy and carefully lifting him off the floor. God, he was _freezing_. Blaine carried Kurt over to the shower and carefully placed him inside before crawling in himself and reaching over to turn on the water.

The hot water cascaded on them both, and Blaine went about washing off the blood as thoroughly as he could. The water soaked through his clothes, and his hair hung in sodden curls around his eyes, but he didn’t care-- He needed to get Kurt clean and warm.

The blood just kept _coming_ , though, and after a while Blaine gave up. He dropped the wash cloth he’d been using and instead gathered Kurt in his arms, holding him and rocking him on the shower floor. The boy clung to him in return, crying into his shirt, soaking him with blood.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Blaine whispered, and he wasn’t sure if the wetness on his face was water or tears. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna help you, all right? We’re gonna find them. I promise, Kurt, I promise.”

Kurt just nodded, not saying a word, and Blaine closed his eyes.

_”Can you tell my daddy for me? Please?”_

_“I don’t know how. I’ve never done that before.”_

_“I’ll go with you. I’ll hold your hand. I just wanna see my mommy again... Can you tell him? Please?”_

_There was a long pause, and then..._

_“Yeah. I will. I promise.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets explores a little bit about Blaine's past relationship. Don't quote me on any of the Black Magic stuff--it's all kablooey. I made it up! Also you may want Chipotle after reading this chapter. I don't blame you.
> 
> I also have a [Tumblr](http://tenaciouscorpse.tumblr.com/).

After carefully depositing Kurt in his bed, Blaine had gone to the bathroom to clean up--and, discreetly, pull himself together. After brushing his teeth and taking a few deep breaths, he returned to the bedroom to find Kurt going through his wallet.

“Hey--what are you doing?” Blaine said, walking toward him, but he didn’t have the energy to be properly angry.

“Sorry,” said Kurt quickly, setting the wallet down. It was open to a photograph, and Kurt pointed to it. “I was just looking at the pictures... Who is that with you, in this one?”

Blaine looked carefully at Kurt, uncomfortable, but he saw nothing malicious in the boy’s eyes. They were wide and genuine and innocently curious, and Blaine sighed.

“That’s Daniel,” he explained, lying down on his back. “He was...my partner. My fiance, actually.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. “You loved him?”

“I did,” said Blaine, and his arms curled around his chest. “He and I were together for seven years. We lived with each other for five.”

“Did he die?”

“No,” Blaine said softly, staring at the ceiling. “He left.”

“Why did he leave?” asked Kurt, stretching out on his side like a cat. His eyes looked rather pained, and Blaine couldn’t stand to look at them. He didn’t need to see such sweet, genuine sympathy when he still felt so guilty after all these years.

“I was a shitty boyfriend,” he replied, shrugging. 

Kurt bit his lip and fell silent for a long moment. Blaine reached over and took the wallet, giving it one final glance before setting it down on the table beside him.

When he lay back down, he found Kurt’s eyes fixed on him.

“Detective Anderson...”

“Blaine,” he corrected without thinking. 

“Right,” Kurt said hastily. “I just-- I wanted to say, I... I’m sorry for what I did. For--possessing you. It wasn’t... It was deplorable, and I swear to you that I’ll never do it again.”

Blaine turned to look at him at last, and noticed a light flush on the boy’s cheeks. It stood out brightly against his pale skin, giving him the look of a painted porcelain doll.

“But you must know,” Kurt continued, staring down at his hands. “You must know that I’m not out to bring these people to justice.” He looked up at Blaine, his eyes steel-hard and his jaw set. “I want to make them suffer for what they did to me. And nothing will stop me from doing that.”

Blaine nodded. He knew that.

“You aren’t obligated to join me,” Kurt added, his speech soft and musical and strangely eloquent for his age. “I only need your help to find these people. They aren’t able to see me, but I can harm them.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and Blaine slowly reached out to grasp Kurt’s shoulder gently. 

“I promised I’d help you,” was all he said, and that was that. Kurt just looked at him, taken aback, and then he smiled. It was the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. It nearly hurt to look at it, so he merely offered a smile of his own before reaching over to turn off his bedside lamp.

“Kurt, you should probably--” Blaine hesitated, feeling guilty. He had no idea where he was sending Kurt, after all. Still... “I need to sleep.”

“Okay,” said Kurt, and he settled next to Blaine, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder. Blaine felt his stomach rocket up into his throat, and he released a weary sigh.

“No, Kurt. You can stay in the apartment, do whatever you want, but... You can’t lie here with me when I sleep.”

Blaine heard the question before Kurt even spoke. “Why not?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Blaine muttered, hating the way saying those words made him feel ten years older.

Kurt was quiet for a moment, then finally sat up. Blaine exhaled in relief.

“All right,” the boy said, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave. Sleep well, okay? And don’t be afraid.” A pained smile. “I won’t possess you again. I promise.”

Blaine couldn’t help but laugh. He rolled onto his side, tugging the blankets over himself. He heard Kurt’s footsteps head toward the door, and said almost as an afterthought-- “Good night, Kurt.”

The footsteps paused. “Good night, Blaine.” Then they continued, and Blaine heard the door shut behind them.

He slept.

\--

The next morning dawned crisp and cold, and Blaine woke up alone. After he drank his coffee and had his morning cigarette, he headed straight out into the bright sunshine to search for Lisbeth Frankel.

He figured one look at St. Teresa’s records would be enough, but when a thorough search yielded nothing he began to question whether Karofsky had been truthful. Somehow, he doubted the man had lied. What had happened to David Karofksy had been a medical anomaly, and it seemed to have been entirely caused just by saying that woman’s name.

Lisbeth Frankel. Blaine said it out loud, and half-expected blood to start erupting from his every orifice. When it didn’t, he began searching elsewhere.

He didn’t return until late that afternoon, carrying in a bag of uneaten Chipotle and setting it on the table. He’d been all set to eat it when he bought it, but now he didn’t feel hungry at all. It didn’t help that after hours and hours of searching, he couldn’t find a single shred of information that linked anyone named Lisbeth Frankel to Kurt’s murder.

After a good half hour of pacing around his kitchen, Blaine finally resigned himself and sat down to eat. Halfway through his burrito he found himself reaching for his cell phone, quickly looking up Mike’s number and dialing.

“Hello?” came Mike’s voice after three rings.

“Hey,” said Blaine with his mouth full. He swallowed and tried again. “Hey, Mike. How’s it going?”

“About to head downtown to check out a crime scene. Someone wrapped a body up in Christmas lights and tossed it down a garbage chute. Real festive, huh?”

“’Tis the season,” Blaine replied with a bitter laugh. “Look, don’t let me hold you up. I just wanted to say thanks. I know I was a dick about it earlier, but I’m glad you talked the Chief into letting me have a few days off.”

“Hey man, you need it. Ever since Susan Langdon’s case closed you haven’t slept a day, and that Karofsky thing sure as hell didn’t help.”

“Trust me, I’m making it up for it now,” Blaine replied, and they both laughed. 

“Oh hey, look--before you go,” said Mike hastily, and Blaine could picture him heading down the hall of the precinct, paging through files as he talked. “Tina and I are still having our New Year’s Eve party. She’s ready to pop any day now but she still wants to do it--stubborn as hell, that woman. You in?”

Blaine hesitated for a moment, then sighed, still smiling. “Yeah. Count me in.”

“Great. Get some sleep, dumbass.”

“Bye, shithead.”

He was still smiling when he hung up, and that might have explained the confused look Kurt wore as he walked into the room. 

“Hey Kurt,” said Blaine. “I have half a burrito left if you’re-- I don’t know if you can’t eat or if you just _don’t_ , but it’s there.”

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” asked Kurt, ignoring the burrito and sitting across from Blaine. Well--he didn’t sit so much as _perch_ , knees drawn up on the wooden chair.

Blaine shrugged. “It’s sunny out,” he offered, and it was probably the truth.

“Did you...?”

“No,” Blaine said truthfully, looking up at Kurt. “I didn’t find anything. But we can try again, Kurt. I promised, and I don’t go back on my promises.” He got to his feet and threw away the remains of his meal before tugging on his coat.

Kurt watched him slip on his shoes from his perch on the chair, his eyes wide. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” Blaine said simply, and raised his eyebrows at Kurt. “You coming?”

\--

Blaine never particularly minded the cold, so he was happy to surrender a few pieces of his clothing to layer on Kurt as they strolled through the park in the middle of town. He walked with a spring in his step, enjoying the way the clean December air made him feel awake and alive.

A walk like this would usually be spent people-watching or somewhere in his own world, but this time it was all about Kurt. This couldn’t have been the boy’s first time outdoors, but he _acted_ like it was-- Every little thing seemed to delight and fascinate him, from the clusters of ants on the sidewalk to the tall green grasses to a little dog passing by. He was an absolute joy to watch--and Blaine couldn’t stop grinning as Kurt jumped onto the railing of the bridge that crossed the river, holding out his arms for balance. He knew he must have appeared strange, grinning and laughing at something invisible, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

He did, however, wait until they were in a relatively secluded area before talking to Kurt. The boy jumped down from the railing and instead hopped across the stone pavement, carefully avoiding the cracks.

“Hey Kurt?” Blaine asked.

“Hmm?”

“Where do you go?” he ventured, before it occurred to him that the question might make that smile disappear from Kurt’s face. It was too late to take it back, though, so he tentatively continued. “When you’re not...with me. Do you--”

“I don’t go to Heaven or anything, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Kurt, who was entirely focused on his impromptu game of hopskotch. “There isn’t a Heaven, not really. It’s much less rigid than that. There’s here and there’s...there.”

“There?”

“Mmhm. _There_ is where my mother is. And my grandparents. And probably David. I have no way of knowing what it’s like--if it’s Heaven or some kind of Hell, or both. I’ve never been there.”

Blaine slowed his pace, his attention entirely on Kurt, both fascinated and vaguely disturbed. “So when you leave, you’re...”

“I’m around,” said Kurt lightly, jumping over a patch of grass on the sidewalk. “When I don’t have anywhere to be or anyone to talk to, I simply...drift. Time doesn’t quite exist anymore, not to me. Long periods of doing nothing don’t feel long, so I don’t get _bored_ or anything.”

Blaine was careful not to say anything as a couple passed by, and he watched them as they walked toward the bridge. They weren’t talking; they simply walked together hand in hand in content silence, and Blaine saw the man lean over and kiss the woman on the cheek. She giggled, her hat slipping off her head as she nudged him playfully in return.

When he looked back at Kurt, he caught the boy staring at the retreating couple with something very much like longing. He seemed to snap out of it when Blaine turned a corner, and he stopped jumping over cracks in the pavement and instead simply walked next to Blaine. As he did, his hand fell at his side, and Blaine could have sworn it had brushed against his own--shy and tentative, a childlike imitation. 

“You said you were an angel,” Blaine continued, unwilling to acknowledge what he’d felt. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pretending like he hadn’t noticed.

“That’s because I am,” said Kurt briskly, and his voice sounded colder, more detached. Blaine felt a familiar pang of guilt.

“So what...are angels, exactly?” Regardless of what the truth may have been, he couldn’t quite shake the images of trumpet-blowing cherubs out of his mind.

Kurt just shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

He smiled up at Blaine, and it was a bitter smile, full of pain--quite unlike the one the boy had worn before when he’d been exploring the park. _Before I ruined it_ , Blaine thought miserably.

They walked in silence for a while until they approached a building. Blaine paused before it, then looked over at Kurt. “Want to go inside the library?”

Kurt didn’t reply. Instead he walked straight toward the library and disappeared through its walls, and Blaine had to stand there and blink a few times before following. 

When he entered the building, though, he didn’t see Kurt anywhere. He wasn’t about to go searching for him, so instead he shed his coat and started walking through the long aisles, eyes roving over shelves upon shelves of books. 

Naturally he drew toward the occult section. His line of work called for extensive knowledge on the subject, but Blaine always felt as though he needed to learn more. Besides, something had just occurred to him--a memory that lingered in the back of his mind, inching its way to the surface.

He grabbed the book entitled _Paranormal Magnetism_ and added it to the rapidly-growing stack in his arms, then moved to sit at a table near the far end of the library. The book was aged and falling apart, and Blaine was stunned that he was able to find it in this day and age. 

When he was young and was first learning about his ability, he’d ridden his bike to the library daily to research everything he could about ghosts and people who could see them. He remembered learning about a woman who’d claimed to have been able to summon ghosts to her, just by calling on them-- He couldn’t remember the details, but...

Blaine was in the business of investigating religious groups and cults, but Kurt’s and Susan’s murders were different. Everything about them screamed _ritual_ , screamed Black Magic, and that was a horse of an entirely different color. At its core, Black Magic was all about exerting power over others, about achieving some kind of selfish goal; it may have taken its roots in faith this time, but Blaine wouldn’t find out anything about it unless he researched the occult section, not the religion section.

Most detectives in his field dismissed things like rituals, attributed every anomaly to religious fanatacism and personality disorders. Blaine’s life had told him that things were different, that some things couldn’t be explained away. The way Karofsky had seized and coughed blood when he said Lisbeth Frankel’s name... That hadn’t been a coincidence. _’They did something to me. I can’t say their names, or..._ ’

David Karofsky hadn’t confessed to Kurt’s murder because he _felt bad_. Something had forced him to. 

Blaine opened up _Paranormal Magnetism_ , paging through it until he found a section that looked familiar. His eyes roved over the text, waiting for a single sentence to spring out and tell him he was on the right track-- _Yes_.

  
Summoning a Ghost with Energy and Willpower

Often the Gifted will find that ghosts appear to them unwittingly and without warning. The truth is that ghosts are brought to them, drawn to them by an invisible thread. This thread is the core of the Gifted person’s energy, their spirit force, everything about them that makes them who they are. 

Normal people have these threads as well, but those of the Gifted are stronger. Just like any ability, the Gift can be controlled with willpower and energy. If a Gifted individual focuses and visualizes their spirit thread, they can summon any ghost they wish to see.

One must be careful, of course. When summoning, the Gifted must have a clear picture in mind of whom they wish to see. If the name of the ghost is not known, a strong description may suffice. The Gifted must write the description on a sheet of paper and place it before them. Then they must light a single candle and stare into it until the edges blur. Once a trance has been achieved, the Gifted must then visualize their spirit thread connecting their chest with the flame of the candle. 

Once the thread is seen, the candle must be quickly extinguished. The ghost that has been summoned will then appear. It must be remembered that the Gifted must have a clear idea of whom they are summoning. If not, the results may be unexpected.

Excitement bubbled up in Blaine’s chest and he closed the book, scooping it up along with the rest of them to check out. Once he did he hurried back along the path through the park, walking at a brisk pace until he reached his car. As he did, he ran over the passage he read in his mind like a track on repeat. This was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

 _You may be trying to hide, Lisbeth Frankel,_ he thought, _but I’ll find someone who knows where you are._

\--

Blaine’s excitement died down before he returned to the apartment. Walking into it felt just like it always had--mechanical, detached, and bogged down with unwanted memories. Mike and Rachel had urged him to move out of this apartment once Daniel had left--but the location of the complex was to convenient to pass up, and he’d renewed the lease.

Besides, he’d been stupid enough to think he could handle it.

 

_”It’s a bit big, isn’t it?”_

_“Oh come on,” said Blaine, laughing as Daniel paced the apartment, appraising it. “You’re always saying you’re claustrophobic. Besides, it’s tough to find an apartment in a place like this, and with this being so close to the precinct...”_

_Immediately Daniel turned to look at him, his blue eyes wary. “I thought you said we weren’t moving here because of your job,” he said softly._

_Blaine sighed and shook his head, walking toward Daniel and putting his hands on his shoulders. “No, no, babe, I said that and I meant it. We’re moving here for us, so we can start our new life together. In fact, I...”_

_He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. He held onto it for just a second, taking a deep breath, bracing himself._

_Daniel’s eyes widened as Blaine sank down to one knee and carefully opened the box. Inside was a beautiful, engraved silver ring._

_“Blaine, you... Oh my God...”_

_“Daniel Emerson,” said Blaine, unable to keep the smile off his face. “I know I’m-- I know things have been kind of crazy, and that I work all the time, and that I drink a lot, and that my family is nuts, and that I snore loudly--” Daniel laughed. “--but I can fix all that. I’m willing to fix all that, for you. Because I love you. And I want this to be the first day of the rest of our lives. So-- Will you marry me?”_

_There was a moment’s pause, and Daniel shook his head. He got down on his own knees before Blaine and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tight._

_“I’ll take that as a yes?” said Blaine tentatively._

_“Of course, you idiot,” replied Daniel. “Now shut up and let’s christen the new apartment.”_

 

Blaine opened the refrigerator and reached for a beer, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He looked up see Kurt’s radiant face, and he immediately straightened up.

“Kurt, you have to see this,” he said briskly, and spread his library books over the kitchen table. _Paranormal Magnetism_ was at the forefront, and he opened it to the page he’d bookmarked.

“I did a lot of reading today,” he explained. “And I figured out that your muderers must have used some kind of Black Magic to keep themselves from being prosecuted for their crime. That’s why I can’t find any information on Lisbeth Frankel, and why--”

“Why David couldn’t say her name,” Kurt finished for him in a soft murmur, eyes fixed on the text below him.

“Right,” said Blaine, nodding. “So I found this book I read once when I was a kid... Basically, it explains to me how I can summon ghosts. Any ghost I want, I just have to have a description in mind and presto.”

Kurt looked up at him, frowning. “Blaine, that doesn’t seem right. You mean you could just summon the ghost of JFK if you wanted? It can’t be that simple.”

“It’s worth a try, right?” said Blaine, shrugging. “I figure Lisbeth has to have a dead relative or two. I could just summon one of them and ask them where to find her. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it, right?”

He looked at Kurt, his eyes sparkling, and the boy looked overwhelmed. “I...suppose,” he replied, his cheeks rather pink, and Blaine grinned.

“All right, let’s do this!” Blaine started pacing the apartment, rummaging through drawers. “I just need a candle... Ah, here we go. I guess we should do this in the living room, might be more comfortable...”

Kurt had stepped closer to the table, and was carefully examining the passage Blaine had opened to. Before he could finish Blaine was back, candle in one hand and a notepad in the other. He beckoned Kurt into the living room area, where he set the objects on the floor and sat cross-legged in front of them.

“Okay,” he said pensively as he took the notepad in hand. “I just need to write a description...” He took a pen from his pocket and chewed on it a little before writing out _Relative or loved one of Lisbeth Frankel_.

“That seems rather vague,” Kurt mentioned, but his tone wasn’t very forceful. More than anything he seemed swept off his feet, genuinely surprised that Blaine was so enthusiastic about helping him. 

He hadn’t expected that.

Blaine wasn’t listening. He lit the candle and positioned it carefully in front of the sheet of paper, then straightened his back.

“Okay... Just stay quiet, all right?” he told Kurt. “I have to concentrate.”

Kurt fell silent as ordered, and sat curled up on the floor as he watched Blaine. The older man had gone completely still, which was strange for him-- Blaine was usually so animated, so full of life, even when he was in pain. It bothered Kurt. He didn’t say anything, though, even as Blaine’s eyelids fell and his eyes grew distant and glazed over. 

It was deathly silent, deathly still, and then Kurt saw it--a vague, wispy white shape forming at Blaine’s chest, slowly stretching and expanding toward the candlelight. It looked like a spiderweb, thin and flimsy, but it seemed to matter a great deal to Blaine--for the moment it appeared, the older man quickly leaned forward and blew out the candle.

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but Blaine held up a finger to silence him. Then Kurt noticed more shapes forming in the darkness--wispy and smokelike at first, rapidly taking form and solidifying. He gasped softly as he saw the figure of an elderly woman materialize in front of Blaine, followed by that of a tall grey-haired man and a young girl. The girl couldn’t have been older than twelve, and Kurt saw Blaine’s eyes darken with sadness at the sight of her.

“I’m sorry to have called you here,” Blaine explained, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. “But I need your help. I have one of you here-- His name is Kurt. He died too early, just like you did.” He nodded toward the girl.

The old woman looked coldly over at Kurt. “He isn’t one of us,” she said in a low, gravelly voice. The man nodded, and Kurt found himself curling up more tightly, feeling vulnerable.

“Be that as it may, I-- He needs your help,” Blaine continued, his voice pleading. “He was murdered...murdered horribly, and Lisbeth had something to do with it.”

The old woman gasped, looking scandalized, and the man’s expression turned angry. Blaine kicked himself internally but kept going.

“Look, I know she was your daughter or--granddaughter, or neice, whatever. And I know she must have had her reasons for doing what she did, but we have to find her and settle this. Please, if you know where she is... Please tell us. Help us find justice.”

It wasn’t working. The old woman had already started to fade away, and the man had cast one more furious look in Kurt’s direction before stepping back into the shadows as well. The only one that remained solid was the little girl, who was studying Blaine’s face carefully. Straightening up a little, Kurt noticed that she was the only one of the three who bore a physical wound--a thin slit across her throat, bleeding softly and slowly down the front of her sweater.

“The doctors cut my throat so I could breathe,” she told Kurt, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking. Kurt moved toward her, nodding his understanding.

“We died differently,” he said softly. “But we both died too young. I have to find Lisbeth, sweetheart. I have to make her pay for what she did to me. Do you see what she did?”

The little girl nodded slowly. Kurt reached out to take her hand.

“Tell me where she is,” he continued in the same soothing tone. “And then you can rest. You can go There. Don’t you want to?”

She nodded again as Blaine watched in fascination. There was a short pause, and then she spoke. Her voice sounded horribly raspy, much too low and textured to be coming from a child.

“My sissy is a nun now. She used to be happy, but when I died she went to the bad school. I try to tell her not to be in that bad place but she never listened. So I went away. But I watch her sometimes.”

“Where is she now?” Blaine asked, his voice urgent.

“At the church with the tall windows,” the girl said, and Blaine bit back a frustrated grown. Kurt was patient, gripping the girl’s hand more tightly.

“Do you remember the name of that church?” he asked. The girl hesitated for a moment, wiping her nose, then nodded.

“St. Clemens,” she said, and Blaine hastily wrote it down in the notepad. 

Kurt’s shoulders fell and he exhaled, visibly relieved. He reached around the girl and tugged her into a hug. “Thank you sweetie,” he said softly. “Go and rest now, okay? We’ll take care of sissy.”   
He released her, and gave her one last smile. “Thank you.”

The girl lingered for another moment, reaching out to touch Kurt’s cheek. “I’m sorry sissy hurt you,” she whispered, tracing his cheek with her hand. “I hope you can rest soon too.”

He smiled at her, and then she was gone. 

Silence fell over the room, and Blaine broke it with a heavy sigh. The undertaking had been stressful, to put it delicately, but he felt satisfied--they had a _location_ now. Excitement began to stir in his stomach as he fully processed this information, and a wide grin broke on his face. He got to his feet, about to turn to face Kurt, to express how pleased he was with these results--when he saw another shape begin to form in the darkness.

He frowned-- They’d extinguished the candle, they’d finished the ritual... Who else could possibly--?

Kurt stood and moved toward Blaine’s side as the formless mist came together and formed a body. With each step the ghost moved Blaine felt another drop of ice fall into his chest, until his heart completely fell away.

No. It couldn’t be. _Why_ \---

A young man in his early thirties stood there, with ashen blonde hair and blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. A gunshot wound was clearly visible, right in the middle of his forehead, and a stream of blood trailed down between his eyes. They were fixed on Blaine, who had gone deathly pale.

“ _Daniel_...?”


	4. Chapter 4

_”Daniel, wait. Please, stop--”_

_Blaine stumbled down the stairs, not even aware of his footing or where it was taking him--he just needed to get to Daniel, to grab onto him, to make him_ stay _._

_Daniel did stop. He turned around, his face red and wet with tears. Blaine fell back; he hadn’t expected Daniel to actually_ listen _. His face lit up with hope for a split second, but then Daniel spoke and it all went away._

_“I’m done with this, Blaine,” Daniel said, his voice shaking. “I needed you today. I needed you to be here and you weren’t, you never are--”_

_“Daniel, I was working--”_

_“Exactly!” Daniel cried, barking out a laugh. “You’re always working, Blaine. You’re always working when I need to talk, or want to go out, or need help around the house-- It makes perfect sense that you wouldn’t be here the day my mother died, Blaine, because you were fucking working!”_

_“I’ll try again,” Blaine begged, taking the last step down so he could walk closer to Daniel. He began to panic in earnest, but it was at war with his guilt--because it was the truth, wasn’t it? Everything Daniel said was the truth. “I’ll drop this case, give it to someone else-- Please, Daniel. We’re gonna get married, everything’s gonna be okay...”_

_Daniel said nothing. He raised one hand, baring the engagement ring Blaine had put there, and quickly slipped it off. There was a moment of horrible realization, of complete devastatation in Blaine’s eyes before Daniel threw the ring at his feet. It landed on the floor with a tiny_ clink _._

_“Fuck you, Blaine,” Daniel said softly, almost a whisper, and he turned around and left Blaine standing there alone._

 

It was like the sort of split-second nightmare that makes you wake up screaming, Blaine thought wildly, but a split-second passed and it wouldn’t _end_. Daniel was there, standing before him, and it occurred to Blaine somewhere in the still-logical part of his mind that he’d written down _loved ones_ on that sheet of paper--

“Why?” was all he could say, his eyes locked on the horrible wound, ugly and gaping on Daniel’s forehead. His ex-lover’s ghost took a step before him, and Blaine felt his eyes heat up with tears. “Jesus, Daniel--”

“I shot myself the night I left you,” said Daniel in a flat voice as he continued to walk forward. “I went home and I shot myself in the head.”

“Oh, God...” Blaine fell back, bracing his hands on the floor as the tears escaped, rolling down his cheeks. “No, God, oh _Jesus_...”

“I was all alone,” Daniel continued, drawing closer. “I needed you but you weren’t there. No one was ever there.”

The ghost knelt before Blaine, who was cowering on the floor, shaking his head over and over. Daniel reached out to take Blaine’s hand in a parody of affection, resting it against his own cheek. It was so cold. Blaine felt like throwing up.

“You did this to me, Blaine,” whispered Daniel. 

Then he raised Blaine’s hand, forced him to point his index finger, and pushed it into the bullet hole.

Blaine screamed. His mind shorted out as Daniel pushed the finger in deep, and it was so cold--oh Christ so cold, so _wet_ \-- He was screaming and sobbing and praying, trapped in the corner of a dark room as the walls closed in around him, nails and screws popping loose and falling, detaching--

\--and then arms were around him, circling his shoulders from behind, and he heard Kurt’s voice over all the scratching in his head. Susan’s fingernails on the glass. _Scratch scratch scratch_.

“Let him go,” Kurt’s voice commanded, his tone harsh. “Let him go and leave, or I’ll rip you apart and you can haunt the world in pieces.”

Slowly Daniel’s ghost pulled Blaine’s finger from his forehead, releasing him. Blaine couldn’t see anything--he was blinded by tears and horror and grief--but he could _feel_ something curl in around him from behind, enclosing him, protecting him. 

Daniel still lingered, looking at Kurt with contempt. Kurt merely tightened his arms around Blaine, raising his voice. 

“Leave! Now!”

An ugly look formed on Daniel’s face, skewing his features entirely, and he drew slowly back into the darkness. Kurt held onto Blaine, shielding him until the figure of Daniel had completely disappeared, and the apartment was silent.

The thing covering Blaine lifted, and he sagged in Kurt’s arms. Frightened, Kurt looked down at him, only to feel him retch and twist to the side-- He vomited all over the floor.

Kurt stroked back Blaine’s sweaty curls as he threw up, and gathered him close when he was done. Blaine couldn’t do anything but sob, and he was shaking violently, occasionally making these terrified little whimpers that made Kurt’s heart hurt. He held him close on the living room floor, ignoring the puddle of vomit that was rapidly begining to spread its stench over the room.

“He’s gone, Blaine,” he whispered, trying to calm Blaine down. “I told him to go away. He’ll never, ever bother you again, okay? He wouldn’t dare. I promise...”

It wasn’t working. Blaine was still crying and shaking, and Kurt bit his lip as he continued to comb his fingers through the older man’s hair. He sat there in silence for a while, just cradling Blaine in his arms and rocking him--and then he began to sing.

It was soft, barely there, and he picked the first song that he could think of. “ _In this proud land we grew up strong, we were wanted all along... I was taught to fight, taught to win--I never thought I could fail..._ ”

His voice was sweet and high, clear and pure, all at once beautiful and haunting. As soon as he began to sing, he felt Blaine slowly relax in his arms, encouraging him to continue.

“ _No fight left, or so it seems, I am a man whose dreams have all deserted... I’ve changed my face, I’ve changed my name, but no one wants you when you lose_...”

Blaine had stopped sobbing, but he continued to shake and weep silently against Kurt. Vaguely Kurt wondered if Blaine was really calming down or if there was something Kurt was _doing_ , some other power he was just discovering that he had. Regardless, he never wanted to see Blaine in such a state ever again--so if this was what it took...

“ _Don’t give up, ‘cause you have friends... Don’t give up, you’re not beaten yet..._ ”

It was a song he'd listen to when he was alive, when bullying at school got to be too much. He couldn't believe it now, looking back--how he'd hide in his room for long hours actually _thinking_ about death, as if it were some pleasant release from life--something to look _forward_ to.

It wasn't.

Blaine had stopped shaking, so Kurt fell silent, looking down at his companion worriedly. The older man straightened up somewhat, and it broke his heart to see how small and _broken_ he looked. "Blaine," he said softly, frightened that his friend was lost forever.

They were friends, right?

"It's my fault," Blaine croaked, tearing Kurt away from his anxious thoughts. "He killed--he _killed_ himself because of me, Kurt. Sh-shot himself--"

"Shh," said Kurt softly, and draped Blaine's arm over his shoulder so he could hoist them both up. He wasn't very strong, so it took a bit of maneuvering, but he managed to get them both to their feet before leading Blaine down the small hallway toward the bedroom.

Once inside he helped Blaine into bed, tucking the covers around him. He took the older man's glasses off his face and folded them up, setting them aside on the table next to his ashtray and the wallet that he knew contained a picture of Daniel. Kurt wanted to find it and set fire to it. 

_How dare you_ , he thought angrily as he remembered Daniel's face--that sick look of _triumph_ as he'd tortured Blaine, as if it were some sort of _retribution_... _You don't know Blaine at all. Blaine is good and strong and kind, he has nothing to do with your suicidal tendencies, you selfish idiot_ \--

Blaine whimpered softly, and Kurt moved immediately to his side. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Blaine anxiously. The older man was shivering, and Kurt tucked the covers more tightly around him.

"You can sleep," he said softly. "I'll stay here until you do."

"No," said Blaine suddenly, with surprising firmness. Kurt opened his mouth to reply, but Blaine silenced him by grabbing hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Don't leave," said Blaine, his eyes staring blankly ahead. "Stay with me."

Kurt blinked, then slowly relaxed, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Okay," he whispered, gripping Blaine's hand in return. "I'll stay."

"Sing for me again," Blaine murmured in reply, closing his eyes.

So Kurt did. Halfway through the song Blaine fell asleep, and Kurt reached over to turn off the bedside lamp and get to his feet. He wandered over to the window, looking down at the city outside, and the way the moon was creeping its way higher into the sky above it.

Hours passed, and he drifted.

\--

When he returned, Blaine was sitting up in bed. Kurt turned from where he'd been standing at the window and walked back over to the bed, his steps cautious. Blaine's face, however, wasn't terrified anymore--it was set, serious, almost determined.

"Come here," he said, holding out his hand for Kurt. Kurt took it, and allowed himself to be guided onto the bed. Blaine didn't let it go, and Kurt was glad; Blaine's hand made him feel warm.

"Tomorrow you and I are going to St. Clemens," said Blaine, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument. 

Kurt had to protest, though. "But Blaine, you're--"

"I'm fine," Blaine interjected. "You need to do this, and you're not going to do it alone. I'm going with you-- No possession. I'll speak for you. We're going to do this together." He turned his head, facing Kurt at last. "All right?"

There was silence, and Kurt just nodded.

Satisfied, Blaine lay back down; there were still a few hours before sunrise, after all. He lay there still for a moment, and Kurt got ready to walk over to the window again--but then he moved, inching over to the side a little and patting the space next to him.

Kurt hesitated for a long moment, then slowly moved to curl up in the bed beside Blaine. Blaine tugged the covers over both of them, and after a few minutes his breathing became slow and even. Kurt didn't sleep--he couldn't. Instead, he closed his eyes without fear for the first time, surrounded by warmth. 

\--

The sunset fell early as it did in the winter, painting the road orange and Blaine drove to St. Clemens with Kurt in tow. The boy sat in the passanger's seat and was utterly silent, watching the small neighborhoods pass by, spaced out between clusters of pine trees. Dark clouds gathered in the corner of the sky, promising something like rain or snow for the future--but right then, there was sunlight.

Everything was still bathed in gold-orange light when they made it to the church, and Blaine parked his car in the otherwise empty lot before stepping out into the cold air. He moved to open up the door for Kurt, but as soon as he put his hand on the door handle the boy was already there at his side.

Blaine smiled encouragingly, but his insides twisted with fear. "Are you ready for this?"

Kurt nodded, but his eyes weren't there. They were fixed on the church--a building that was quite old, but since refurnished and expanded--hard and unforgiving and shockingly blue. Blaine understood. He took the boy's hand and briefly squeezed it before leading the way into the church.

The inside was dark but for wide streams of orange sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows, creating beautiful pictures on the walls and floor. Candles flickered everywhere, and a woman was moving around the benches and statues, putting them out one by one. The scent of the snuffed candles made Blaine instantly nostalgic.

Upon hearing Blaine's footsteps the woman paused, turning slightly to look at him. She was clearly a nun, though not in full habit--she wore instead a high-collared black dress, a sheer white veil draped over her grey-streaked auburn hair. A thick wooden cross was looped around her neck, and she touched it lightly as she offered Blaine a welcoming smile.

"Hello," she greeted, bowing her head. "I'm afraid Mass has ended. Have you come for Confession?"

"You could say that," said Blaine, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "Are you Sister Lisbeth?"

"I am," the woman replied, brushing her hands on her skirt before folding them and stepping toward Blaine. "And you are...?"

"That's not important," Blaine replied. He didn't look at Kurt but he could _feel_ the boy next to him, feel the anger and pain radiating from him. He wished he could reach out and hold his hand. "I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to talk about Kurt, Lisbeth. Kurt Hummel."

Lisbeth's eyes narrowed in confusion, but she'd gone noticeably pale. "I don't know who that is," she said sharply. "If you aren't here for Confession or to pray, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to lea--"

"You're lying, Lisbeth." Blaine raised his voice. He thought about Kurt's body in those photos, twisted and mangled, and anger burned inside him. "Are you going to stand right there in front of the Lord and lie to me? You and three classmates tortured and murdered Kurt Hummel twenty years ago. Did you think that if you pretended it didn't happen you'd cheat your way into Heaven?"

'How dare you!" Lisbeth gasped, taking a step back, and Blaine noted that she looked more frightened than offended. "How dare you come in here and--and spout such filth, such lies--"

"He's here with me," said Blaine, speaking quietly. "He's standing here right next to me."

"What in God's name--"

She stopped mid-sentence, going white as chalk, her eyes fixed on the back wall of the church. Blaine followed them to where he could see Kurt's shadow in the rust-colored light, and he gasped softly. Two wide, dark shapes spread over the wall, slowly unfurling, crawling across the wood paneling and across the stained-glass windows. 

Wings.

"Oh God..." Lisbeth whispered, clutching her cross. "Oh Lord, forgive me... Oh please have mercy..."

Blaine's eyes moved back to where Kurt had been standing beside him, but the boy was gone. There was nothing left but the shadow, looming dark and terrifying over the both of them. He tore his eyes away from it and turned back to look at Lisbeth, feeling vindicated. "I think you should talk now, Lisbeth," he said sternly. "If you want even a chance of getting to Heaven, I think you should take responsibility for what you did."

Lisbeth was still staring at the shadow in horror, and she shook her head, still clutching her cross. "I thought it had failed... I never thought-- I was against it from the start--"

"Against what?" said Blaine sharply, his stomach lurching.

"The ritual," Lisbeth whispered, her eyes falling onto Blaine at last. "The creation of an Avenging Angel."

His heart pounding, Blaine advanced on her, his expression urgent. "Tell me, Lisbeth. Tell me everything."

Lisbeth had started trembling, and she shook her head over and over as she talked. "It was foolish. Blasphemous. I was sure it would fail. But I was a fool, a--a foolish child."

"What did the ritual entail?" Blaine demanded, unwittingly drawing closer to the trembling woman. "What were you trying to do?"

"The corruption and death of an innocent," Lisbeth replied in a low whisper, closing her eyes and performing the sign of the cross. "Once defiled and slain, the innocent will return as an angel to do our bidding. To free us from our torment. To avenge us." She swallowed hard. "It seemed impossible from the start. But that--that _pervert_ joined our group, that filthy sodomite--"

"David Karofsky?"

Lisbeth nodded. "I was firmly against letting him in, but it was necessary. He became what we needed. He led us to the boy, and he did what we were unwilling to do."

"You mean you let him rape Kurt," Blaine said viciously, relishing the shudder than ran through Lisbeth at his words. 

"It had to be done," she continued, her voice shaking despite her attempts to keep it steady, authoritative. "Once he was finished, we had to perform the rite immediately. Each of us marked the boy, and--and invoked the spell. It was raining that night. We were rushed, frightened. We were only children."

Blaine gritted his teeth but let her continue.

"Once we buried the boy," she said carefully, "we cast the spell of Silencing upon Karofsky. He could not reveal what he'd seen that night to anyone, or else he'd suffer an agonizing death. It worked. We went on with our lives. No one was any the wiser. That half-wit took the blame for the murder, and it was as if it never happened."

"But you remember," said Blaine darkly, his chest tightening. "You remember every detail of that night. That's why you became a nun, isn't it? You thought it would absolve you from your sin, your sick crime--"

"I've done my penance!" Lisbeth cried, clutching her cross so hard her knuckles were white.

"What would your sister think, Lisbeth?" Blaine snapped, unable to stop himself. "Her death was what led you to St. Teresa's, wasn't it? And then you spit all over her memory, like she means _nothing_ to you. Is that what you call penance?"

Lisbeth's eyes went wide. "How do you know about that?" she whispered. "Who _are_ you?"

"Who helped you?" said Blaine, ignoring her question. "I need to know, Lisbeth. The names of the others. If you want absolution, if you want to do your penance-- Tell me their names."

There was a long, long pause, and Lisbeth closed her eyes again, clutching her cross, and began to pray. Silence fell over the church but for her whispering, and Blaine grew even more impatient. The sun had dropped low, the rust-colored light turning violet-blue as night drew closer. Blaine glanced around the church in search for Kurt, but his shadow had gone. He couldn't see the boy at all. He frowned, confused, then turned back to Lisbeth. She was still praying.

He sighed in irritation. "Now, Lisbeth--"

"Timothy Blake," she said suddenly, looking up at Blaine so suddenly it made him jump. "Ellen Ordesky. Robert Callahan."

Blaine's eyes widened and he scrambled to pull his notepad and pen from his coat pocket, jotting down the names as quickly as he could. When he looked back up at Lisbeth, tears were rolling down her face.

"Please, leave," she whispered, shaking her head. "Leave me in peace. I'm not a fool-- I know that I'll be punished for my sins in the next life. Let me use the rest of this one to atone. Please... Just go."

Shaking his head, Blaine slipped his notepad back into his pocket and took another step forward. "I need to know one more thing," he said softly. "Lisbeth... I need to know why you did it. What was the ritual for? Why did you need vengeance? Who were you trying to get back at?"

Lisbeth had stopped crying, and she looked up at Blaine with sharp, unblinking eyes. "I cannot tell."

Blaine frowned. "The hell you can't," he said bluntly. "What else do you have to hide?"

"I cannot say!" said Lisbeth shrilly. "I've revealed enough!"

"Yes you can!" shouted Blaine, advancing on her, and she cowered. "Tell me, goddamnit!"

"I _cannot_ \--"

Quite suddenly, like a switch being flipped, the remaining candles in the church went out. Blaine and Lisbeth were plunged into darkness, and the only light that remained was the silver glow from the steadily rising moon. Something was moving in the silvery panels of light that slipped through the windows, slowly drawing closer, and Blaine didn't need to look to see what it was.  
He knew it was Kurt.

As the boy's dark shadow approached, Blaine felt something that Kurt had never made him feel before. He felt fear. He couldn't see any of the boy's features--only the outline of his slight body, and the spread of vast wings on either side, and it stopped something inside him. He felt crippled, knocked flat by Kurt's presence, and he could only stare as the boy slowly approached Lisbeth.

The woman was gripping her cross with both hands, shaking wildly and muttering prayers nonstop. Her terrified eyes were fixed on the back wall, where Blaine assumed she could see Kurt's shadow--and he started to feel sick, as if he ought not to watch anymore.

He couldn't tear his eyes away, however, as Lisbeth's cross was suddenly torn from around her neck and violently yanked from her hands. She cried out in horror as the beads from the necklace spilled upon the floor, and she made an attempt to gather them up before Blaine blinked his eyes and Kurt was just _there_. The boy stood before her from where she knelt on the ground, scrambling to retrieve the lost beads. There was silence.

Then Lisbeth began to bleed.

It was just like with Karofsky--but instead of the blood streaming from her eyes, it all came from her _mouth_. She coughed and sputtered, spitting out gobs of red over her flailing hands, which were still trying to gather up the fallen beads. After a while she couldn't move anymore, and she just doubled over, clutching at her chest. She clawed at the fabric of her dress as if trying to keep something inside, and Blaine had a moment of horrible realization before Lisbeth made a retching sound and--

He looked away. 

It was a moment before the retching stopped, and Blaine slowly opened his eyes. A single candle had been lit, illuminating Lisbeth's dead body. It was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, and--Blaine's stomach rolled--her heart lay next to her. She had thrown it up. She had thrown up her heart--

He tore his eyes away and looked for Kurt. The boy was standing over the single candle, his hands folded. The wings were gone. In the blink of an eye, he'd transformed back into the frail boy Blaine knew, and Blaine approached him tentatively.

Watching the candle flicker, he was silent for a long time. He stared into the flame, remembering how he'd light one for his parents for a few weeks after they'd died--before he'd lost his faith. 

Kurt was the one to speak first. His voice was tiny, soft and frightened, and Blaine put an arm around him.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked.

Blaine replied, "No."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for character death.

The man was twisted horribly, splayed on the sidewalk outside the apartment building, eyes open and staring at nothing. 

Blaine had been bent at the knee, examing the body from all angles as photos were snapped of the crime scene from all sides. Gently lifting the man's sleeve, he saw a number of oddly-shaped scars etched across the skin, and he recognized them as words--Sanskrit, actually, and there appeared to be several layers of them.

He heard footsteps approach and heard Mike's voice. "I'm gonna ask the tenants a few questions," he said, and Blaine nodded.

"By all means," he said, getting to his feet. "But I'm calling this a suicide already."  
Returning to work shouldn't have felt as awkward as it did. Blaine slid into it naturally, regaining his old confidence easily, but it was difficult to shake the feeling of being _scrutinized_. Even Mike seemed slightly skeptical of him, and Blaine wondered how long it would be before that ended, and he could restore his reputation completely.

When he returned to the precinct later that afternoon he found an officer waiting for him in his office. The man was in full uniform, and was tall and broad with close-cut brown hair and a face that was normally good-natured but had turned quite surly.

Finn Hudson. Rachel's husband. Blaine's eyebrows lifted. "Can I help you, Officer Hudson?"

"Yeah." said Finn, and his voice was surprisingly harsh. He stepped closer, and Blaine could see his face more clearly-- He looked upset. "What's this about you opening up my brother's case? They caught the guy twenty years ago. Can't you leave well enough alone?"

Blaine was for a long moment, utterly nonplussed. _Brother?_ "I beg your pardon?" 

Finn shook his head, frustrated. "Kurt Hummel. My stepbrother."

Blaine felt his heart drop. Kurt had never mentioned having a brother. Honestly, Kurt hadn't mentioned anything about his life at all. It was horribly ironic, Blaine thought with a surge of guilt, that they'd spent more time discussing Kurt's death than they ever had his life. 

"What were you trying to do?" Finn pressed on, clearly frustrated by Blaine's lack of response. "Going to see that Karofsky guy-- Did you learn anything?"

There was a terrible, terrible moment in which Blaine wrestled down the impulse to be honest--to tell Finn the truth, that his brother hadn't found justice yet, that three of his killers were still on the loose... Doing so would complicate everything, set it all back--and worse, disrupt the frail peace that Finn had undoubtedly been clinging to for twenty years.

Blaine couldn't bear to bring Kurt's family any more pain than they'd already experienced.

"No," he said simply. "I thought I had a lead, but I was wrong. Your brother's killer is dead, Officer Hudson. I'm sorry that I--”

“Save it,” muttered Finn, and he turned on his heels and left. Blaine let his pen fall on the desk, and he sighed heavily. It was going to be a long day.

\--

Dr. Rachel Hudson’s office was well-lit and friendly as usual, and Blaine exhaled deeply upon entering it, shedding his coat and lowering himself on the couch opposite her chair. Rachel smiled at him in greeting, flashing pink lipstick and impossibly white teeth. If psychology hadn’t been her chosen profession, Blaine was certain Rachel would have gone into show business; she’d succeed with her smile alone.

“It’s nice to see you, Blaine,” said Rachel, folding her hands and crossing her legs. “It’s been a while. Busy with work, I take it?”

“Actually no,” said Blaine, quirking a smile. “I’ve had a bit of time off, actually. That’ll be why you haven’t seen me-- I’ve been too busy relaxing.”

Rachel laughed. “You seem more relaxed. Has the medication been helping, then?”

 

_”What are those?”_

_Blaine could hear Kurt’s voice behind him, but he was somewhere else. He hadn’t seen Daniel--it had only been his own reflection in a window, but the jolt had been enough. Sweating and shaking, he scrambled to find his bottle of pills, and wrestled off the lid. It flew from his hands, landing with a clatter into the bottom of the sink._

_“Blaine, what are you taking?_ Blaine _!"_

_The pills had spilled every which way, and Blaine scrambled to push them into a pile on the counter before desperately grabbing two of them and shoving them in his mouth. Kurt had grabbed onto his arm, shaking him as he seized a glass of water and downed it._

_"Why aren't you answering me?" Kurt was saying, and Blaine abruptly wheeled on him. The boy recoiled, looking frightened, but the intense look on Blaine's faced passed within a moment._

_"Sorry," he said softly. "It's all right, Kurt. It's just my medication."_ Which I deliberately hadn't taken so I could call the ghosts. I'd begged Rachel for these and I didn't take them so I could voluntarily see what I'd been running from for years. So I could see Daniel-- __

_"Don't... I thought..." Kurt looked genuinely distressed, and Blaine finished the sentence in his head. He reached out and patted Kurt gently on the side of the head._

_"I'm not going anywhere, kid," he said softly._ Not yet, anyway.

 

"Fine. They've been working fine."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "That's wonderful to hear, but I can't help but be skeptical, Blaine. You've been fidgeting a lot, and you keep on touching your index finger."

Blaine jumped a little and looked down at his hands, and sure enough, he found his hand wrapped tightly around his index finger. _It pushed deep into Daniel's forehead, into the bullet hole, inside--_ He released in quickly, feeling faint all of a sudden. 

"A new tic, I guess," he said with a very forced laugh. 

"Blaine," said Rachel softly. "Are you sure nothing happened? You haven't seen anything that's causing you anxiety? No...spirits?" 

For a long moment, Blaine fought with himself. It would be so easy to tell her everything from the beginning--about Susan, about St. Teresa's, about Kurt. About Karofsky, about Lisbeth. About Daniel.

Instead, he leaned forward, tearing away his hand from his index finger again and folding his hands before him. "Well, something happened," he said. "Your husband talked to me today."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "And?"

"He seemed really upset," said Blaine, and sighed, crossing one leg over the other. He made sure to look agitated, as if his meeting with Finn had really gotten to him. It had perturbed him, certainly, but mostly because he wasn't sure _why_ it happened. "He jumped down my throat out of nowhere."

"Oh," said Rachel, biting her lip. "Well, he's going through a rough time, with his father in the hospital. I'm sure you must have heard."

He hadn't. Blaine's eyes went wide and he quickly righted himself, unwilling to let his alarm and curiosity show. "Oh, no--I didn't. I'm sorry about that."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry he took it out on you," said Rachel, looking slightly uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, assuming the professional demeanor she'd had before. "Is that all you'd wanted to talk about today?"

_Not really. I've watched two people die. I helped it happen. I saw my dead fiance. I have a young dead boy sleeping in my bed with me every night and like hell I don't feel something when he's there, something that hasn't been there in years and it fucking terrifies me_ \--

"Yeah," he said softly, and smiled. "Yeah, that's it."

\--

Blaine took the long way home, needing to clear his head. When he finally returned to the apartment, the thoughts were all but punched out of head by the rich, inviting scent of cooking food. Confused, he stepped into the kitchen area--only to find Kurt surrounded by pots and pans, humming quietly as he cooked.

"Kurt!" Blaine exclaimed, confused and pleased despite the pain that stabbed through his heart at the sight. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Kurt wryly, raising an eyebrow. "I made you dinner. Chicken cacciatore. You had all the ingredients, so I assume you like it?"

"Yeah," said Blaine with a strained sort of smile, moving to sit at the table. Kurt already had a plate made for him, Christ-- The boy placed it before him, then stood there anxiously for a moment before Blaine realized he was waiting for him to take a bite. He did so tentatively, then raised his eyebrows.

"This is delicious," he said, and truly meant it. Kurt's face lit up with a brilliant smile, and Blaine couldn't take it anymore. 

"Kurt...sit down with me?" he said softly after a moment, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. Kurt looked pleasantly confused as he lowered himself in the chair opposite Blaine's, and Blaine sighed.

"Look... I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just--say it," said Blaine, hating that he had to do this when Kurt was finally something like happy. "But it's... It's about your dad."

The smile disappeared so quickly from Kurt's face that it was almost comical. "What?"

Blaine ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. "I heard it from your brother's wife today. Your dad's in the hospital. She didn't say what for, but--but I thought you ought to know."

Kurt was quiet for a long time. His eyes looked intense, but not in the way Blaine usually saw them. There was something deeply emotional there, deeply protective and loving, and Kurt shook his head.

"His heart," he said softly, his sweet voice almost a whisper. "It's probably his heart."

Falling silent, Blaine just watched Kurt, eager despite himself to hear what the boy had to say about his family. He was interested in what Kurt's life was like, what kind of a person he'd been before the darkness had changed everything. 

"I didn't know Finn got married," Kurt continued, watching his own hand as it opened and closed on the wooden surface of the table. "I hope he's happy."

"His wife is great," Blaine assured him, smiling a little. "She's my therapist, I know her really well. He's happy, I promise. It's just--you know, he's upset about your dad."

"I want to see him," said Kurt suddenly, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. Blaine could see the boy's eyes begin to moisten, and reached out to cover the small, trembling hand with his own. "I want to see my dad."

"We'll go," said Blaine softly. "I'll figure something out. Okay? Let's just-- You went through all this trouble to make this for me, why don't we just have dinner together?"

"You know I don't eat," said Kurt miserably, and Blaine squeezed his hand.

"Then just sit with me." Blaine replied. "I'll make everything okay. I promise."

\--

It had been a bit of a job to track down Finn the next day. Blaine had his own work to do, after all, and Finn didn't work in the same department he did. Then, of course, there was the issue of Mike--and honestly, keeping things discreet in general. It seemed hopeless until Blaine was on his way out, and caught sight of Finn walking toward his car.

"Hudson!" Blaine called, his heart leaping into his mouth as he ran toward him. "Finn! Wait up--"

Finn turned and gave Blaine a bemused look, and Blaine plodded up to him, panting from the impromptu sprint. "Hey," he said breathlessly. "Can I get you a coffee?"

"Uhh, I'm married, dude," said Finn slowly and Blaine let out a shocked laugh.

"Oh, no--no, it's not like that," he babbled, waving his hands. "I just-- I wanna apologize for what I did, for opening up Kurt's case again. This'll really help clear my conscience. Just a half hour of your time?"

"Yeah," said Finn after a moment, shutting his car door after just having opened it. "Sure. You'll drive?"

"Sure," said Blaine, exhaling deeply in relief. 

He headed straight for his favorite coffee shop, just a mile away from his apartment. It was buzzing with the usual crowd--workers on their lunch break, college kids, the occasional elderly couple. The windows were broad and let in plenty of sunshine, which Blaine liked. He bought two medium drips and took a seat near one of them, offering Finn the spot opposite him.

"So, uh...this is awkward," Finn mumbled. 

"I... Finn, I really am sorry," said Blaine carefully. "I didn't mean to upset you, or drag up any bad memories or anything. I'm really torn up about it."

"Obviously," Finn replied, but he was smiling. "It's cool, dude. You were probably just trying to help or--whatever. I know you didn't do it for some kind of weird reason." 

The smile went away almost as quickly as it had came. Finn's eyes were intense as he looked at Blaine across the small coffee table, and Blaine had to remind himself for a moment that Finn and Kurt weren't actually related by blood. 

"Did he say anything?" Finn all but demanded. "That Karofsky guy. Did you get anything new out of him. or was it the same old bullshit?"

Blaine opened his mouth and closed it again, nonplussed. Finn sighed in frustration, sitting back in his seat.

"I always thought it was bullshit," he grumbled, staring out the window. "That he got put in the crazy house, that was that. He deserved the death penalty."

"If it's any consolation, he died a horrible death," said Blaine darkly. 

Finn nodded, then took a hurried sip of his coffee as if just remembering it was there. A cloud passed overhead, obscuring the crisp sunlight, and Finn watched it sweep over the shop, a faraway look in his eyes. There was silence between them for a long time, in which Blaine was sure they thought about the same boy for entirely different reasons.

"I almost wished it would have been about something more," Finn said suddenly, surprising Blaine. "I didn't want to think that Kurt's life would just end because of some crazy pervert. But shit like that happens, I guess. The best people die and the sick bastards keep on living."

His face twisted up angrily as he stared at his cup of coffee, and Blaine wanted to tell him how much he understood, how much he knew. He kept silent, though, hoping Finn would go on to talk about his stepfather.

Instead, Finn fell silent again, focusing on his coffee. Blaine began to drink his own, and nearly spat it out when he saw Kurt standing next to their table. He tore his eyes away, hoping Finn didn't notice, and watched from his peripheral as Kurt lifted one hand to gently touch the hair on the back of Finn's head. The look on the boy's face was pained, horrible to behold, and Blaine couldn't look anymore.

The silence carried and Finn finally stood, and when Blaine looked back at him Kurt was gone. Blaine rose as well, disappointed that their coffee excursion had been a bit shorter than he'd preferred--there was still the drive home, though. All he needed was for Finn to say the name of the hospital where his stepfather was, and he'd go from there. 

It was either a stroke of luck or something horrible when Finn's phone went off on their way out of the shop-- All Blaine knew was that one moment Finn was talking quietly on the phone and the next he was urging Blaine to drive him to Shell Valley hospital three towns away.

"Is it just up here?" Blaine asked as he drove as fast as he could, narrowly avoiding three red lights on the way. 

Finn nodded, looking distressed. "Yeah. Shit, my mom said he flatlined. He flatlined, dude-- What if he dies?" He clapped a hand on his forehead, pale and sweaty. "What am I gonna do if he dies? What am I gonna _do_?"

Blaine didn't answer. He couldn't. All he could think about was Kurt.

\--

The next hour was a blur. Blaine stood awkwardly nearby as Finn and his family comforted one another, the atmosphere tense and thick as the doctors did what they could for Mr. Hummel. They managed to stabilize him, but Blaine didn't let himself feel relieved just yet. He'd seen too much tragedy in his life to hope for a miracle.

He sat there in the waiting room an hour later, well away from the Hummel-Hudson family. Rachel had joined them, and he saw her throw him a glance from where she stood at her husband's side. He didn't meet her eyes.

Time dragged on, and Blaine sat there until he ran out of magazines to read. He got to his feet and began to walk, needing to stretch his legs. The hospital had grown quiet as they tended to do in the evenings, and Blaine got an odd chill as he thought about the last time he'd been in one.

 

_"Blaine, come here."_

_His grandfather's eyes were wet with tears as he held out his arms, scooping Blaine into them and setting the small boy on his knee._

_"Are mom and dad okay?" Blaine asked._

_He hadn't been sure what was going on. He'd cried a little when his grandparents told him that his mother and father were very hurt, but had eventually distracted himself at the hospital with toys and coloring books. It was boring, but he'd been sure his parents would be okay. The doctors would fix them-- That was their job, right?_

_"The doctors did everything they could," said Grandpa, and Blaine shook his head. This couldn't be right. They couldn't be--_

 

Blaine was pulled from his thoughts when he passed by an empty room and saw Kurt.

The boy was standing at the window, the soft light surrounding his figure, illuminating it. Blaine walked tentatively into the room, unwilling to startle him. He saw that Kurt was holding something in his arms--and upon closer inspection saw that it was a tattered stuffed animal, a teddy bear.

"Liza," said Kurt softly, suddenly. Blaine was silent, wondering what would come after that, and Kurt turned slowly to look at him.

"My teddy," Kurt explained, holding out the bear. "My dad gave it to me when I was three. They buried me with it."

Pain wrapped around Blaine's heart and he stepped closer, wanting to reach his arms around Kurt and hold him. He held back, giving the boy his space. He realized suddenly that the window was open, letting in a cold breeze that ruffled the thin white curtains.

"My body wasn't on display at the funeral, for obvious reasons," Kurt went on, holding the teddy close as he looked back out the window. "They made a little shrine instead, of pictures of me, and keepsakes." He pressed his lips together, his eyes wide and full of animal pain. "My dad cried so much. Finn led him out, because he just--broke down. I knew it would be too much for him, especially since he'd already lost my mom."

Blaine stepped closer, and tentatively put his hand on Kurt's shoulder. He winced. "You're so cold," he whispered, and pulled Kurt close. "Why are you always so cold?"

"I don't know," Kurt whispered, lying his head against Blaine's chest. He was quiet for a long time, just letting Blaine hold him, and then--

"After my mom died, my dad was my everything," Kurt said softly. "I was such a strange kid, such a handful, but even through high school--he always supported me. When the kids would call me names like--like _queen_ or _fag_...when they'd throw me into lockers or push me around, he--he'd always be there. It was hard for him, having a son like me, but he did it. He was always cheering me on, no matter what."

Blaine felt Kurt begin to tremble in his arms, and he held him tighter just as he heard a flatline-- Shouting followed, and the sound of footsteps, and Christ, Blaine's life was full of the strange and the paranormal but never had anything seemed to surreal to him before. He stood in the empty hospital room, just holding Kurt as the boy began to cry in his arms.

"He's dying, isn't he?" Kurt whimpered, and Blaine just held him closer. The rest of the hospital was quiet, so the sounds from Burt Hummel's room rang loud and clear. He heard the shouts of 'one--two--three--clear!', the steady beeping from the heart monitor, the sound of Rachel's weeping in the distance. All the while he held Kurt tightly as the boy trembled harder and harder, whimpering like a frightened animal. 

 

_"W-wait-- They died? They're dead?"_

_"That's right, Blaine. It was real quick, the doctor said--"_

_"No! N-no, my mommy and daddy aren't dead! They wouldn't do that, they wouldn't leave me all alone-- I'm not listening to you!" He covered his ears, shouting as loud as he could. "I'm not listening to you! You're a liar and I hate you, I hate you--"_

 

It was over, and Blaine's arms were empty. He looked around the room, vaguely panicked, and moved back out into the hall. There was silence but for soft voices and weeping from Burt Hummel's room, and there was a sudden loud _THUD_ as Finn drove his fist into the wall.

Rachel intercepted Blaine before he could reach him. "You can head home," she said softly. "I'll take care of Finn. Thank you for driving him here. You've done more than enough."

Unable to speak, Blaine just nodded. He turned to leave. On his way out he passed a male doctor--presumably Burt's cardiologist--and caught sight of the nametag. His senses, well-honed from his career as an investigator, zoned in on _Callahan_. 

Callahan. 

Blaine turned. "Excuse me, sir," he said softly. "Could you tell me the time?"

The man looked confused but raised his wrist to check his watch--and sure enough, Blaine saw an arrow tattooed on the inside of it, small and black and vivid. Ordinarily he'd be struck blinded by his good luck--but as it was, he could only register it with vague detachment. 

"Seven-thirty," said Callahan, then turned away. Blaine nodded and continued his journey outside the hospital, resolving to keep his discovery to himself until later.

He didn't need to search the hospital to know that Kurt wasn't there. He had gone.

\--

_"You've got something wrong, Blaine. Your parents are gone, but you're not alone. You're not alone, you hear me? And you never will be."_

\--

Blaine finished off another case of beer and lay back in his armchair, staring at the television without really watching it. Football had slowly dwindled from an obsession to a distraction in his mind over time, and now it was nothing but blurry shapes moving across a screen. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift off for a moment, then forced himself to stand up and walk to his bed.

He hadn't seen Kurt at all since he'd returned from the hospital, and he had no idea if he'd come to bed tonight. The thought made him feel vaguely lonely, but he was drunk enough that he'd sleep soundly by himself. 

In his heart Blaine knew that Burt Hummel had moved on. Kurt must have known it too, for all the grieving he had done. Burt was _there_ , the world that Kurt couldn't touch, couldn't see through a window like he could the world of the living. 

Kurt would never see his father again.

Sighing, Blaine lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, holding himself back from falling into memories again. Instead he rolled to his side, took his pills and closed his eyes. 

He drifted to sleep and back again, and felt a solid presence behind him when he woke. There wasn't the telltale warmth of a living body--just cold, as if a piece of the room at night broke off and lay beside him. 

"Kurt?" he mumbled, his sleep-addled mind unable to process anything other than the boy's presence. 

Kurt didn't answer. Instead, Blaine felt the boy's hand slide over his shoulder and down his arm, grasping his hand. Blaine rolled over, blinking his eyes, adjusting to being awake. The room was still dark--he'd only been asleep for a few hours.

"You okay?" he asked Kurt, his voice raspy, but Kurt remained silent. He just took Blaine's hand and settled it against his own face, sliding it gently down to his lips. Blaine's own lips parted as he lay there, drunk and half-awake, watching Kurt as the boy took one finger and slid it between his lips slowly.

It was fascinating. The inside of Kurt's mouth felt warm and wet, and Blaine felt a shiver roll over his body. He was in a daze, too out of it to speak, and he struggled to drag up the words to ask Kurt what he was doing or why he was doing it or to stop him-- But God, why would he stop him? Why would he do anything to stop Kurt taking that hand and sliding it over a pale length of neck, the perfect curve of a shoulder, slip it inside the collar of his shirt--

"Jesus, Kurt," Blaine slurred, unwilling to admit that his mind had taken this path several times long before his hand had. Kurt didn't know how often Blaine had thought about touching him like this, about holding and caressing and bending that sweet body of his, devouring him like a beast. Kurt didn't know because he wasn't _supposed_ to know, this wasn't supposed to be happening--

"Do you want to fuck me?" Kurt whispered, though his tone of voice was all wrong. It was all desperation and pain, Blaine vaguely registered as Kurt's hand moved, sliding down Blaine's abdomen and touching the front of his pants, ghosting over his length--

"I-- Kurt," said Blaine, pulling away abruptly. "Kurt, I know you're in a lot of pain right now, but this won't-- We can't do this, all right?"

"Why not?" Kurt demanded, kneeling on the bed, his shirt sliding off his shoulder and revealing glowing skin that Blaine ached to touch again. "I see the way you look at me. I know you touch yourself and think about me. Don't act all noble, like you're trying to protect me or something--"

"Kurt, you're sixteen--"

"So what?" said Kurt shrilly, and he wasn't playing at being seductive anymore. Instead blood beaded around his eyes were tears should have been, his expression wild with such pure unadulterated _hurt_ that Blaine would have done anything to make it go away. "Are you afraid you'll hurt me? Do you honestly think you can hurt me any more than I've already been hurt, Blaine?"

Blaine was at a loss for words. He just stared at Kurt, watched the beads of blood slide down over the boy's pale cheeks, and resisted the urge to brush them away. 

"Kurt," he said finally, feeling utterly stupid. "You're beautiful. You're perfect, I just..."

"You just what?" Kurt demanded, his eyes cutting through the darkness and straight through Blaine's breastbone, peeling layers off his heart. Blaine felt tears begin to build in his own eyes, and he shook his head.

"I don't want to ruin you," he said at last, and there was silence. Kurt got to his feet, brushing the bloody tears off his cheeks with his fists, looking horribly young. When he turned to look at Blaine, though, there was something deeply ageless about him. Something dark, something broken. 

He said, "I'm already ruined."

There was a horrible pause in which Blaine couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and he waited too long. Kurt got out of the bed and went for the door, and Blaine couldn’t tell if he were leaving the room or leaving the world for a while.

Both prospects hurt far too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains serious mood whiplash, vivid panic attack/PTSD symptoms and attempted non-con.

Blaine didn’t see Kurt for a whole week after that.

He kept to his own business, investing himself in work as he’d always done, and managed to restore his reputation by promptly and smoothly closing a missing persons case. Things should have been going perfectly, but Blaine couldn’t stop thinking about Kurt.

What-- _were_ they, anyway? Their relationship had been inappropriate from the start, Blaine had known that, but he’d let it go on nevertheless. _Am I really that desperate?_ he thought bitterly as he sorted files at his desk. _Am I so lonely and horny that I’m willing to jump in bed with a teenager who’s been dead twenty years?_

The thoughts were gone as soon as they arrived. Thinking about Kurt that way didn’t do the boy justice at all. Kurt was--incredible. Despite the horrors he’d seen and the murders he’d committed (though Blaine had a hard time thinking of them as _murders_ \--murders were what he dealt with every day, murders happened to the innocent), Kurt remained the purest soul Blaine had ever known. He thought about the boy’s smile, his laugh, the way his eyes could go from so cold to so soft in a nanosecond... He thought about the way he’d protected Blaine from Daniel, comforted him, cooked for him... He thought about the way Kurt’s skin felt, so fucking soft and smooth--

He sighed heavily, kneading his forehead as Mike walked into the room. “Still on for tomorrow night?” asked his friend, handing him a cup of coffee.

Blaine was silent for a moment, wracking his brain. _Tomorrow night, tomorrow night..._ Oh. The New Year’s Eve party.

“Yeah, definitely,” Blaine replied. “I’ll be there.”

“All alone?” said Mike, raising his eyebrows. “Man, that’s so depressing. You and I should hit the bars soon, see if we can score you some--”

“It’s fine, Mike,” said Blaine rather sharply. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“No you aren’t,” said Mike firmly, leaning against his desk, coffee in hand. “You’re a mess. I know I tell you every day, but you look like shit, Blaine. I know you’re drinking again--”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right, and that’s why you look like you’re going to _fall over_ right now,” Mike drawled. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I just think you ought to try and get out there again, meet someone. You might think the life of a loner suits you, but I know better. You’re happiest when you’ve got someone to take care of, someone who’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you, Doctor Love,” Blaine mumbled, but he felt a dull ache in his heart. Mike was right, he knew that. But Blaine didn’t want to log onto a dating site, go to a singles bar, a gay club. He didn’t want anything like that.

 

_He woke up to the sweetest music he’d ever heard. Tugging a shirt on with his pyjama pants, he stepped out onto the balcony of his apartment, where Kurt stood singing with his back to him._

_Closing his eyes, he listened to the song until it was done, then stepped up behind Kurt.  
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “That was The Beatles, right?”_

_“Mmhm,” Kurt replied, and turned to smile at Blaine. “My mother loved them. Whenever I heard them playing in the house, I knew she was in a good mood.” He looked back out over the city, watching a few birds flutter up from the street below. His hair fluttered in the wind, and Blaine watched him, breathless._

_“Kurt...” he said softly after a long moment. “I should tell you... Thank you.”_

_Kurt looked up at Blaine again, brow furrowed in polite confusion. Blaine stepped closer, feeling foolish for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint. It was easy to feel like a clumsy, awkward human next to someone like Kurt._

_“For protecting me, from--from Daniel,” Blaine continued, his voice soft. “I couldn’t--” He shook his head, shivering. “I just...”_

_Saying nothing, Kurt just reached out a hand, touching Blaine’s face softly, sweetly. There was silence between them, but it spoke more than words ever could. Kurt trailed cool fingertips over Blaine’s cheek, mimicking tears, then drew them back._

_“Come watch the birds with me,” he said softly, and moved to the railing again. Blaine walked up behind him, hesitated, then wrapped both arms around Kurt’s small waist. The boy leaned back against him, and they watched the sun rise together._

 

“Blaine?” asked Mike after a moment. "Did you hear anything I just said?

Blinking, Blaine looked at his friend and vaguely realized he'd been talking. "Uh--no, not really, come again?" 

Mike rolled his eyes. "There's this guy Tina knows-- I wanna introduce you to him. He'll be there at the party, and I'm pretty sure he's into guys."

"You know, that's not my only criteria," said Blaine dryly. 

"Well, no offense, but you've lost the right to be picky," said Mike, and patted Blaine on the shoulder as he walked out. "I'll see you then, all right? Eight o'clock. Dress nice."

"Yeah, okay. See you then."

\--

In the time leading up to the party, Blaine researched everything he could about Robert Callahan. A large part of him kept asking _Why bother?_ , but he shut it down by reminding himself that Kurt simply had no one else to help him. Regardless of how he felt about Blaine when he did, the boy would be back--and Blaine had to be ready for when he did.

Unlike with Lisbeth, there was plenty of information about Callahan readily available. He was a rather high-profile cardiologist, after all, with an excellent reputation and a flawless track record. 

_Except, you know, for the fact that he assisted in the brutal rape and murder of an innocent boy_ , Blaine thought, stomach twisting in anger as he printed out an article. 

While he waited for the document to print he got up and went to the kitchen for a beer. As he wandered into the living room to drink it, he spotted a small object on his couch that hadn't been there before. Frowning, he moved toward it, and reached down to take a soft, tattered brown teddy bear into his hand.

 _Liza_ , he thought, and set down his beer, lowering himself down onto the couch with the bear in his hands. He stared at it for far too long for it to have been entirely sane, his thoughts drifting, oscillating between the past and the present.

In the past, he'd helped ghosts out of a sense of duty, an obligation to serve the dead in ways he couldn't help the living. He'd only ever seen the ghosts of his parents once--he assumed they'd moved on from there--and he'd taken it as a sign, an indication that his gift was meant for more than he could understand at such a young age. When he'd met the little ghost girl in the park. he'd agreed to help her without even thinking about it, not really-- He remembered approaching the girl's father to tell him that she'd died, and how the man had immediately chased him away, grief-stricken and infuriated. To this day Blaine wondered if he should have just kept quiet.  
Becoming a detective could have been a vocation, an obligation born from a subconscious desire to please his parents--or else it could have just been a way for Blaine to try and dig further into his gift, try and make it _mean_ something, and in turn give himself some sort of direction in life. The more Blaine thought about it the more pathetic he felt, and he leaned against the back of the couch, unconsciously holding the bear closer.

 _Kurt_.

Kurt should have been just another lost soul for Blaine to try to guide, another attempt to scratch away at his gift, his _curse_ and find its purpose-- But he wasn't. Kurt was different in every possible way. Kurt didn't need a hand to guide him, words to calm him. Kurt didn't need a savior. Kurt's soul burned with more life than Blaine had ever seen, passion and drive and determination that towered over the boy's small frame. Kurt was complicated and angry, beautiful and terrifying, frail and impossibly strong. 

Kurt was everything Blaine wasn't.

Yet, for all the power the boy seemed to possess, he had chosen Blaine--not only as someone to help him, but something more than that. He thought about the way Kurt had tried to hold his hand in the park that one day, had curled up against him in the hospital as his father passed--and then what had happened after, the heat and desperation and loneliness--

Was that all they were? Two lonely souls from both sides of life who happened to run into one another? If so, was there really anything fundamentally wrong with that?

Staring down at the bear, Blaine smoothed his thumb over its tattered fur, the button eye that was threatening to pop off. 

He sat like that for a while.

\--

Blaine found it highly ironic that the first snowfall of the season would occur on the day of his journey to Mike and Tina's townhouse for the party, and he played his Roxy Music album on repeat as he navigated the steady onslaught of white. He arrived an hour behind schedule, and shook the snow from his curls before stepping up to ring the doorbell.

A very round, very cheerful Tina answered the door, and her smile was infectious. Blaine leaned over to give her a hug, wrapping his arms around her enormous middle. 

"Still hanging out in there, huh?" he joked, and she laughed.

"I'll probably be induced," she replied as she welcomed him in and took his coat. "But I wanted to hold out just a little longer, so she can be a New Year baby."

"Hey, look who showed up!" came a jovial voice from down the hall. Mike immediately grasped Blaine in a firm hug, and Blaine saw a tall man approach from behind his friend. He was handsome and well-dressed, but his good looks were slightly marred by the pompous smirk he wore.

"Come on into the kitchen, I'll get you a drink," Mike was saying. "Oh, and-- Blaine, this is Sebastian. Sebastian, Blaine."

Blaine offered his hand pleasantly for Sebastian to shake, and the taller man's smirk didn't budge as he took it. Blaine wondered what his problem was.

"I'll get drinks--you two get to know each other," Blaine heard Mike say, and realized unpleasantly that this must have been the guy Mike was trying to set him up with.

"So, _Detective Anderson_ ," Sebastian drawled as Mike disappeared into the kitchen. "I've heard a lot about you. You're the one that found that missing woman a few years ago, right?"

 _I've done a bit more since then_ , Blaine thought, but he nodded. Sebastian grinned, sipping at his merlot, and Blaine saw his eyes dart up and down Blaine's body in a display that couldn't have been meant to be discreet. _And Mike was_ 'pretty sure' _he was into guys?_

"Very admirable," Sebastian continued, raising his glass. "As a defense attorney I can respect that, the work you do. Keeps me employed."

Blaine wasn't sure if Sebastian had meant that to be a joke; regardless, he didn't laugh. He merely excused himself for the moment, wandering toward the hors d'oeuvres. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he'd do anything to get away from Sebastian.

That proved far easier said than done. Hours passed and he found himself desperately needing a cigarette, and he was willing to step outside in the snow to have it. Thankfully, the cold made sure he'd be alone as he stepped out the door to the backyard, and he was grateful to find that the snow had stopped falling.

The backyard was a sight to behold. It was a sizeable stretch of land surrounded by wooden fence on all sides, peppered with clusters of pine trees all draped with strings of colorful lights. A blanket of white had settled cleanly over everything, and Blaine enjoyed the peace and quiet as he lit up his cigarette, stepping away from the house and into the snow.

He smoked quietly for a few blissful moments until he saw something moving in the corner of his eye. Having moved away from the noise of the party, he could hear a faint humming, sweet and melodic and haunting.

As it grew clearer Blaine realized that it was singing, a _singing_ voice, and he knew it all too well. He lingered near the side of the house, smiling as he watched Kurt materialize from a distance. The snow had started lightly falling again, and Kurt was dancing around in it, spinning and singing and laughing. The boy twirled and caught snowflakes on his tongue, dressed in white, a sheer silvery shirt loosely falling over his shoulder as he danced.

"You're not cold?" asked Blaine softly after the song was done, and Kurt turned to look at him for a long moment before extending his hand. Blaine walked tentatively forward and took it, and found that it was warm--much warmer than the boy's skin had ever felt before.

Blaine looked back up at Kurt's face, surprised, and Kurt smiled--and then he disappeared.

Startled, Blaine looked around, then gasped as he felt something cold and wet hit the back of his head, knocking off his hat. It took a moment for him to recover--but when he did, he was laughing despite himself, scooping up a handful of snow to throw back at Kurt, who was hiding near a pine tree. 

With a whirl Kurt was gone again, just as Blaine packed another snowball. "That's not fair!" he laughed, just as another snowball hit him in the knee. "Hey! You little--"

Kurt laughed, and Blaine heard the sound nearby-- He retaliated by grabbing the boy around the middle, holding him tight. "I've got you," he murmured in Kurt's ear, breathing him in for a second--the feel of him in his arms, his warmth--and then he was gone again.

Alone again for the moment, Blaine stepped toward a nearby oak tree to pick up his hat. He brushed the snow off of it and put it back on, and in doing so noticed Kurt perched on one of the branches above him. Blaine sighed, leaning against the trunk of the tree, watching as the snow fell steadily around it.

"Kurt," he said softly as the boy hummed softly above him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to chase you away."

"You don't need to explain," said Kurt lightly, dusting snow off his sleeve. "I'm dead, you're alive. You have standards, I get it."

Blaine laughed despite himself, but shook his head. "It's not that," he said truthfully, staring at the multicolored lights as they spread beautiful colors over the blanket of snow. "I think I'm-- I'm scared. You know how my last relationship went, and you're--"

"Dead? Too young? Damaged goods?"

"--perfect," said Blaine, closing his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. "You're perfect. I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's damaged goods. But maybe we both are."

Things were quiet for a second, and Blaine realized Kurt had disappeared again. Instead of sitting on the tree branch, Kurt was sprawled out on the snow near a cluster of pine trees, the lights shining brilliantly over his skin. He made a snow angel as Blaine approached him, staring up at the branches splayed above him, and Blaine moved to lie down next to him. The snow was cold and bled into the fabric of his coat, but Blaine didn't care.

"The lights are so beautiful," said Kurt softly, reaching up to touch one.

"You're beautiful," said Blaine.

"That's so corny," laughed Kurt, and Blaine rolled over. He positioned himself on top of Kurt, looking down at him, shielding him from the falling snow. Gently he leaned down, nuzzling the boy's neck, praying that he wouldn't disappear again.

"I don't know what changed," Blaine murmured against Kurt's startlingly warm flesh, gravitating toward it. "But being without you-- I don't think I can do that. I don't know how I did it before."

He pulled away slightly, biting his lip, and found Kurt's intense eyes fixed on him, saw the dazzling lights reflected in them. 

"I don't know what I want," he continued, speaking as though reaching in his stomach and tearing a piece off, bearing it raw and bloody before the boy underneath him. "Or how I feel. I just know that--you're mine. You're just mine."

Kurt's lips turned up softly into a smile, but he didn't speak. Instead, he closed his eyes for a few moments, black lashes splaying against his pale cheeks. Somewhere--from inside the house, probably--people had started counting down. _Oh, right. It's New Year's Eve_ , Blaine thought vaguely, but all he could see was Kurt. Kurt was everything.

_'Ten... Nine... Eight...'_

"It's scary," Kurt said finally, "when I close my eyes. I can't close them for too long or else I fall somewhere dark. It's like dying all over again."

_'Seven... Six... Five... Four...'_

Pain wrapped around Blaine's heart and he nodded, leaning close. "Then just look at me, baby," he whispered softly, so close now that his lips were brushing Kurt's. They were so soft. "Just look at me..."

_'Three... Two... One!_

Their lips met just as the shouts of 'Happy New Year!' were drowned out by distant fireworks, and Blaine couldn't tell if they were real or in his head. He kissed Kurt slowly, lying there in the snow, hidden away in the branches of the pine tree. Kurt's mouth was like nothing he'd ever tasted before, the cleanest purest taste he could think of, untouched by anything--and _God_ , he thought, he'd never consider this boy damaged goods, there was nothing damaged or broken or ugly about him, nothing at all...

If there was a world outside the kiss Blaine didn't know about it. Kurt was responding with soft, sweet, curious little kisses, his tongue playfully darting in every so often, a temptation. Blaine played along for as long as he could, then forced himself to pull away slowly.

"Will I see you tonight?" he asked, trailing his knuckles against Kurt's cheek. His answer was an impish little smile, and then his hand fell forward in deep snow. 

Kurt was gone.

Blaine felt a stab of frustration that lasted all of a second, then shook his head, laughing. Slowly he got to his feet, brushing off his clothes, then turned to head back toward the townhouse. As he rejoined the party, he tried not to look as though he'd finally felt happiness for the first time in years.

"Hey, where you been?" asked Sebastian as Blaine walked back in, stomping snow off his shoes. "You missed the countdown."

"Oh did I?" said Blaine distractedly, absently wandering toward the punch bowl to spoon himself a cup. Sebastian followed him, smirk still stubbornly in place.

"Lucky for you I don't mind being a little late," said Sebastian, stepping close to Blaine and leaning close, invading his personal space.

Blaine took a step back just in time for the punch bowl to somehow move several inches across the counter top, squeaking as it went--all before tipping over, splashing all over Sebastian's expensive-looking jacket. The tall man swore loudly as Tina rushed toward him with towels, thankfully creating enough fuss so that Blaine's laugh went unnoticed--

\--and so that he could watch Kurt, whistling innocently as he moved away from the counter top, giving Blaine a fey smile before disappearing again.

\--

"Dr. Robert Callahan."

Blaine handed Kurt the stack of papers he'd printed, and Kurt held them delicately, paging through them slowly.

"You take a look at those, okay?" Blaine told him from where they both sat on the bed. "I'm gonna shower, all right? I'll be right back, promise."

Standing under the hot water did wonders for his aching muscles, and Blaine wondered if this was what it felt like to get old. He'd forgotten, really, when he'd been out in the snow with Kurt the night before, and everything had felt so pure and new. Those two words hadn't been a part of his life for a long, long time.

Dressed in his pyjamas, Blaine walked back into the bedroom to find Kurt naked on his bed.  
It took every ounce of self-control he had not to stand there and gape. "Kurt," he sighed heavily, walking toward where the boy lay on his front on the bedspread. He climbes onto the bed beside him, but he didn't lie down.

"Yes?" said Kurt innocently, and Blaine gave in for the moment. He reached out a hand, trailing it slowly over Kurt's back--the smooth skin, the sharp shoulder blades, the sweet curve of his spine. His fingers lingered on the scar there, tracing it slowly. He let them trail back up, and Kurt arched into the touch like a cat, practically purring.

Blaine leaned in, pressing gentle kisses against Kurt's shoulders and the back of his neck. "You're beautiful," he said again, murmuring against the boy's skin, as if he couldn't get enough of it. "But..."

He pulled away, lying down on his back beside Kurt, and reached up to trail his fingertips over the boy's cheek. "I think we should wait a little longer, sweetheart," he said softly. 

"For me?" said Kurt, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"For me," Blaine replied firmly.

Sighing, Kurt acquiesced, rolling over and tugging the blankets over himself. Grateful that the distraction was, for the most part, gone, Blaine got up from the bed again to start rummaging through the closet. Kurt watched from where he was burrowed in the bedclothes, wide-eyed and curious as Blaine pulled a large box from one of the shelves.

"What are those?" Kurt asked as Blaine pulled out two framed photos and set them on his nightstand. 

"Pictures of my parents," Blaine replied. "My mom and dad, right here. See them?"  
Kurt wriggled closer to take a look, still wrapped up in the blankets. Only his head and fingertips were visible, really, and it was adorable. Blaine smiled despite himself.

"It'll be the anniversary of their death in a couple days," he continued. "I only put their photos out for that. Otherwise I just..." He shrugged. "I guess I'm not all that sentimental."

"How'd they die?" asked Kurt as Blaine climbed back up onto the bed. He lay down on his back, holding out his arm so Kurt could curl up against him. He held the boy close, pleased to find that he still felt warm to the touch.

"Drunk driver," Blaine muttered, trailing his fingers through Kurt's hair. "It's stupid, right? I wanted so bad for it to be some evil villain that I could track down, get my revenge, but... It was just some teenage girl who drank too much at a party and slipped on the ice."

"It's still horrible," said Kurt, looking up at Blaine from where he was curled up against the older man's chest. Blaine leaned down to kiss him on the forehead.

"I know," he said softly. "But I was so young. I grew up so bitter. I loved my grandparents, but..." He shrugged again.

There was a long pause, then Kurt asked, "Have you ever...seen them?"

Blaine hesitated for a while before answering. "Only once," he said. "They appeared to me only once. I think they were trying to comfort me one last time before--"

"Before moving on," Kurt finished.

Blaine nodded before falling silent, just closing his eyes and holding Kurt. He couldn't describe the way the boy made him feel--the sheer comfort that came from having a warm body pressed against his own. It was probably pathetic, Blaine thought, but he latched onto it anyway, breathed in this boy who had stolen his heart so easily and so completely.

"You'll see them again someday," whispered Kurt after a long stretch of silence, and Blaine merely nodded, cuddling him closer.

He hoped so.

\--

On the anniversary of his parent's death, Blaine took Kurt to find Robert Callahan.

It had stopped snowing and the sun was shining brightly as Blaine drove well out of the city toward the other side of town. The scenery went from a forest of tall buildings to a stretch of greenery giving way to an upper-class development, and Blaine felt odd departing the urban climate he knew so well.

The sense of discomfort grew as they drove into the development, slowly approaching Robert Callahan's townhouse, and Blaine realized it had nothing to do with homesickness. It had been one thing to venture into the middle of nowhere in pursuit of Lisbeth, but this-- 

This was a normal, friendly neighborhood. He could see a bundled-up couple walking their dogs, an elderly man taking out the trash, a teenage boy shoveling leftover snow off the driveway, and--children. Children were everywhere, joyfully playing with what was left of the snow, sliding around on the ice, laughing...

Blaine saw a group of them--two little girls with long brunette hair and an older boy--depart from where they'd been bulding a snowman to run back into their house. Blaine slowed down and checked the directions he'd written, and he felt his stomach twist horribly. He stopped the car.

"What is it?" asked Kurt, frowning. Blaine had gone horribly pale.

"He has kids," he said softly, shaking his head, brows knotted together. "Callahan has kids."

"And?" said Kurt, raising his brow, looking both confused and frustrated. Blaine took the car out of park again, turning around in a cul de sac. 

"What are you doing?" Kurt said incredulously, holding on as the car jerked sharply.

"I'm not doing this," said Blaine, shaking his head. "I'm not-- How insane would it look if I just went in there and Callahan ended up dead? I won't get off with a murder charge again. No, I-- I'll just park the car in that other development, wait for you."

Kurt fell silent as Blaine pulled the car around and drove it to the next development over, parking it near a few trees. He lingered after Blaine shut off the car.

"You're not...gonna leave, are you?" asked Kurt after a long silence.

"No," Blaine sighed, his stomach twisting again as he saw another child traipse by. "No, baby, I just-- Christ, he has _kids_."

"I don't care if he has kids," said Kurt, frustrated. "Did you forget what he did to me, Blaine?"  
"No," Blaine repeated, holding his head in his hand. "No, just-- Please, just go do it. Make it quick. I'll wait here for you, all right?"

Kurt hesitated for a long moment, then Blaine blinked and he was gone. 

Blaine took a deep, deep breath, trying to hold himself together. His chest kept on tightening though, and he felt like he couldn't get enough air, and _Christ_ what was he doing? What were _they_ doing? There had been that reprieve, those moments of sweetness that had distracted him from everything, and now he was thrust back into it, and-- 

Karofsky had been an evil rapist. Lisbeth had been cruel and without remorse. Watching them die hadn't been easy, but--but this was different. This was in this man's _home_ , that he shared with his _family_ \-- Blaine's hand flew to the door handle for a split second as he very nearly left the car to run to Callahan's house, to warn him somehow, before sense returned and he remembered just why Kurt was doing this.

He turned the keys so he could flip on the radio, desperately searching for a way to distract himself. No matter what song he turned to, however, he could keep the memories from flooding his mind.

 

_"No! N-no, my mommy and daddy aren't dead! They wouldn't do that, they wouldn't leave me all alone-- I'm not listening to you!" He covered his ears, shouting as loud as he could. "I'm not listening to you! You're a liar and I hate you, I hate you--"_

_He ran away from his grandfather then, stumbling toward his parents's hospital room, trying to budge his way inside. His mom and dad had to be there, sick and hurt but alive, waiting to see him-- He'd make them feel better, he knew it._

_"Mommy? Daddy--"_

_"Get him out of here," he heard someone hiss, but not before he struggled past a nurse to get a glimpse of his mother's face._

 

Blood.

_Blood._

Kurt had materialized in the passenger's seat again, and he was covered in it. That wasn't how it had been before. David had died a fair distance away, as did Lisbeth--so why was Kurt covered in blood this time?

And why was Blaine panicking at the sight of it?

Silent for the time being, he started up the engine, driving out of the development and back onto the road as quickly as he could. He was sure police cars would be arriving there shortly, and he wanted to be as far away from the area as possible. 

They drove for at least an hour in silence before Blaine finally spoke. 

"What did you do?" he asked, his voice quiet and strangely monotone. Callahan had deserved it, whatever it was, he told himself. Seeing Kurt covered in blood was a sickening reminder of what his body had looked like in those photos, after all.

Kurt settled back in the seat, breathing slowly, looking pale and shaken but justly satisfied. He was silent for a long moment before said, "I ripped their heads off."

Blaine's heart stopped. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, causing the wheels to screech horribly, and turned on Kurt. " _Their_?"

"Robert Callahan," said Kurt softly. "And his wife, Ellen. They were both on Lisbeth's list. They both had the arrow tattoos. So they both had to die."

Another horrible silence descended upon them, and Blaine could hear his blood pounding in his ears. 

_'I ripped their heads off._ ' How? Had he done it in the house? Had the children been there? Christ, had they--had they walked inside the house just to see their parent's bodies, their disembodied heads lying on the kitchen floor, eyes still open, mouths lolling--

 

_"Get him out of here," he heard someone hiss, but not before he struggled past a nurse to get a glimpse of his mother's face._

_Blood. it was covered in blood, and gashes, and her eyes were open and glassy-- The nurses were covering her with sheets, why were they doing that?_

_He was being pulled away, or maybe he wasn't. He might have been screaming; he didn't know anymore. Nothing existed in his world except for his mother's face, raw and bloody, her eyes staring--blank, when they should have been fixed on him, crinking with a smile, telling him everything was going to be all right..._

 

"Go," said Blaine. "Leave. Now."

Kurt stared. "What? Why?"

"Just go!" Blaine shouted in a strangled voice, and a in a split second Kurt was gone. Nothing remained. no bloodstains on the upholstered seats of the car, and Blaine could have been yelling at nothing. Maybe he had been.

Starting up the car, Blaine dragged his hand through the tears on his face before turning on the ignition.

\--

Blaine started drinking as soon as he got home.

He polished off his last case of beer, then started in on the half-empty bottle of vodka he'd stashed in his bedroom. One shot, and then another, and he could no longer see straight. The world swayed before him, his mind hanging somewhere he couldn't reach, and he waited for the apathy to come.

It didn't.

Regardless of how many times it happened, Blaine never grasped the concept that he was an _angry_ drunk, that alcohol amplified his emotions rather than dulled them down. Several vicious arguments with Daniel were a testament to that--and yet Blaine always found himself reaching for the bottle as a crutch, as the only thing that took his anger and pain and _did_ something with them.

He stumbled out of the kitchen and into the hallway, and-- Christ, he was drunker than he thought. Swaying, he grabbed hold of the wall to steady himself as he tried to focus on getting to the end--but there was nothing _at_ the end. It was all black, and someone was standing there blocking his way.

"Kurt," he growled. "Move out of the way."

There was no response, and Blaine vaguely wondered if he was actually seeing Kurt at all. The figure of the boy drew closer, though, and Blaine felt his anger rise. He didn't even know why.

"Move!" he repeated, raising his voice--but then Kurt's hands were on his arms, steadying him, and he could hear Kurt's voice over the sound of his head pounding.

"You need to sit down," Kurt was saying. "You had too much, okay? Come on..."

"Jesus," Blaine groaned as his world swayed. He felt vomit climb up in his throat and he swallowed it back down, and he let Kurt guide him into the living room before he realized what he was doing. 

Kurt lowered him into a chair and turned away, and Blaine abruptly seized the boy by the wrist, dragging him back.

"I tol' you t'go," he slurred, squeezing Kurt's wrist way too hard. "Why're you here, you-- You killed--their parents, m'parents..."

He was obviously babbling, and Kurt recognized it as such. The boy reached down to try and wrench his arm free from Blaine's grasp, but then Blaine just grabbed the other wrist and held it just as tightly. There was a split second of stillness before Blaine was moving, anger flying up from where he'd set it loose, overcoming him, completely obliterating his senses. Somehow he ended up on the floor, pinning Kurt with his body, his hands ripping at the boy's clothes.

"Blaine, _stop_!" Kurt might have been crying out, but Blaine wasn't listening. His hands groped and pulled, tearing Kurt's shirt open roughly.

"This is what you want, isn'it?" Blaine was growling, his hand now clumsily working at his own belt buckle. "What you always fuckin' want--"

He couldn't see anything but a blood-soaked face, staring eyes, and the picture he had on his bedside table, that he'd completely forgotten about because of this _boy_ , this goddamn kid who was killing people and ripping their heads off and _Christ_ , this stupid kid that he loved more than his parents more than Daniel more than his own worthless life and maybe that was what was making him angrier than anything else--

Lost in his own head, he didn't see that he was alone on the floor now, on all fours over the living room carpet, tugging at nothing--and then there was a sickening _thud_ as something collided with the side of his head. Hard.

The pain didn't arrive until a split second before he blacked out.

\--

He woke up in his bed, and to a dull, throbbing ache in his skull. Immediately he retched, throwing up over the side of the bed, and when he looked up he saw Kurt kneeling by his bedside table. The boy was bathed in soft blue light, and Blaine wondered what time it was.

It must have been hours later, he realized, but then his brain fractured into throbbing pain again. Groaning, he fell forward, burying his face in his hands. He felt cloth beneath his fingertips, and realized that it was wrapped around his head-- Bandages. Kurt must have--

Kurt wasn't paying attention to him. Blaine was shocked he was still there. Sickening shame crawled in his stomach, threatning to make him throw up again, and he felt tears prickling in his eyes. _Christ, I'm a fucking monster. What did I-- Jesus, what was I doing--?_

"Oh Jesus," he whimpered out loud, and he threw up again. He sobbed in between retches, overcome by pain and confusion and bitter self-loathing. Once he was through he curled on his bed, covered in tears and snot and vomit, tangled up in misery.

Despite this, Kurt still hadn't said a word. Through the haze of his tears Blaine saw the flickering of candles that he hadn't noticed before, glowing over Kurt's face. The boy was still kneeling, and Blaine realized that it was in front of the picture of his parents. 

His stomach twisted. "Kurt..."

Kurt didn't look at him. Instead he folded his hands, focusing on the picture. And then he began to pray.

"Mr. and Mrs. Anderson," he said softly. "I'm-- My name is Kurt. I'm dead too, but I can't come see you. You've moved on to somewhere I can't reach, but if I could I'd tell you that your son misses you very much. Today is the anniversary of your death, and I'm honoring you the only way I know how. I don't believe in God, but..." He inhaled slowly, releasing the breath with a small sigh. "I believe you're somewhere good. And we haven't forgotten you. We never will."

Blaine was silent, stunned, as Kurt nodded once and blew out the candles. After another brief moment, he finally looked at Blaine.

"I knocked you out with a beer bottle," he said plainly, in that strangely candid way he always seemed to talk. "I guess they're good for more than just making you act like a stupid animal."

"Kurt," Blaine croaked, covering his face with one hand. "I'm so... Christ, I'm so sorry."

"I know," said Kurt, getting to his feet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with towels, using them to sop up the vomit on the floor. 

"I clean up your vomit way too much," he said idly as he worked. Blaine couldn't think of a single word to say.

Silence stretched on as Kurt cleaned, and finally he left again and re-appeared with a glass of water and an ice pack. He placed the former item on the nightstand and the latter against the side of Blaine's head. Blaine winced as the cold made contact with what was presumably a fairly substaintial wound, considering how concussed he felt.

"Should've hit me harder," he grumbled as Kurt held the ice pack against his head, and Kurt sighed.

"Probably," he said softly. "I will the next time you drink and lose control, how's that sound?"

"M'never gonna drink again," Blaine replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Kurt's hand. "Jesus, never. God, Kurt, I..."

"Shh. Lie down," Kurt ordered, and Blaine complied, wincing as the world spun around him again. He felt the mattress give beside him as Kurt sat down, and was vaguely aware of the boy checking his eyes and vitals as he lay there swimming in guilt.

The sun was rising, and everything went quiet again. Blaine didn't sleep, and Kurt didn't move from where he sat on the edge of the bed. The city was slowly waking up around them, but they were somewhere else--somewhere dark and tucked away, somewhere only they knew.

"Kurt," was the first word Blaine spoke in what felt like hours, his voice raspy and low. 

"Hm?"

"Thank you...for praying for them."

"You're welcome."

The silence fell again, trailing past dawn. There was nothing left to say.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to add me on [Tumblr](http://tenaciouscorpse.tumblr.com/) for Klaine and all manner of shenanigans.

It was another brilliantly sunny, bitingly cold day, and Blaine was out. It felt like he hadn't left the apartment in ages, and the crisp air and sunshine felt just as refreshing as he'd hoped they would. He'd also hoped that going out would help alleviate the crushing guilt he still felt, but that wasn't a wound that would heal easily.

Time had started slowly scabbing it over, though, and he and Kurt were slowly stitching themselves together. Blaine just wondered when the time would come when they'd be sewn together completely.

Stepping into a department store, he wandered toward a display of colorful scarves. He took one in hand, feeling its softness, and immediately thought of how amazing it would look wrapped around Kurt's beautiful neck. Buying Kurt things wouldn't make up for what Blaine had done, he _knew_ that, and Kurt really didn't _need_ things, anyway, but...

"Detective Anderson?"

Blaine turned, still holding the scarf, and was immediately assaulted by hot pink. "Sugar," he said slowly, a half-smile forming as the schoolgirl approached him eagerly. "How have you been?"

"Fine!" she said happily, blushing. "I mean-- Winter break is almost over, but I've been able to spend time with my Daddy and he got me a new car for Christmas so that's good."

"Good," Blaine echoed, blinking. "Looking forward to going back to school?" he added carefuly.

Sugar's smile faded just a fraction, but Blaine caught it. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, opened it and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Sugar and tried to ignore the way her eyes lit up when she saw his phone number.

"Sugar, look at me," he said. When she did, he caught her gaze, locking it there. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, speaking clearly and carefully. "I want you to take that and please, if _anything_ happens at school--anything suspicious, anything that makes you feel afraid or uncomfortable--you call me, okay? Anytime at all. All right?"

The girl's eyes were wide and alarmed, so Blaine gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Everything's okay, don't worry. I just want you to know that you have someone to talk to if anything happens." He smiled. "Okay?"

"Okay," said Sugar. nodding. "I gotta go now." Blaine squeezed her shoulder once more and watched her briefly as she turned and left. 

He hesitated for a moment, then took the scarf off the rack and bought it.

\--

The walk home was pleasant, though frigid, and Blaine was in good spirits until he passed by the bar. His footsteps slowed and he looked up at the signs, at the promises of _good times_ and everything alcohol should have been, but wasn't. 

He started walking again. 

With Kurt's encouragement and support he'd dumped most of his liquor down the sink, keeping only a handful of beers to wean himself off of it. He didn't think he was at the 12-step program point, and those never worked unless you were religious anyway--and things were going well. He hadn't had a drink since, even with the beers in his fridge, and he thought about dumping those too when he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate.

A text message from Mike: almost a daddy get ur ass over here godfather 

 

 _Oh my God._ Blaine dropped everything and ran.

\--

Blaine wondered if he'd ever go a month without being in a hospital, idly paging through a magazine while Mike paced back and forth near Tina's room. He heard his friend sigh heavily for what had to be the hundredth time, and turned to look over his shoulder at him.

"You can sit down, you know," he informed him. "It's going to be hours more, probably. Labor isn't like in the movies, where babies pop out in two minutes."

"Says the voice of experience," Mike grumbled, taking the seat across from Blaine and folding his hands. After a while he moved them to hold his head, looking frazzled, and Blaine waited for him to burst out with something.

He did. "Do you think I can do it?"

"Sit still for more than an hour?"

"No-- Be a dad. What if I suck at it? What if she doesn't even like me?"

"Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of yourself there?"

"Come on, dude. Pat my ass a little, please? I need it right now."

Blaine sighed, then reached out to put his hand on Mike's shoulder. "Michael Robert Chang," he said softly, laughter in his voice--though he was being sincere. "You are the single most trustworthy, capable man I've ever met. Not to mention patient-- Dealing with my shit for all these years?"

Mike laughed. "Thanks, brother."

"No problem. Now sit still, for Christ's sake. I need to use the bathroom."

He got to his feet, wandering out of the maternity ward. Honestly, he needed to stretch his legs a little. Since giving up drinking he found that sitting idly made him jumpy, so he set off at a brisk pace, striding down the halls with no particular destination in mind.

The bathroom seemed like a decent place to end up. He walked inside and stood by the mirror, examining himself. Deep lines were forming around his eyes, and his hair was scraggly and unkempt as usual. Frowning, he attempted to push it back-- As a kid, he'd been very meticulous about combing and taming his hair with gel; without it his hair would fly all over the place, and it had made him severely self-conscious in a world he already didn't fit into. Now, it didn't seem to matter.

Sighing, he pulled back, standing upright. He knew Kurt was there without even seeing him.

"I don't think there's anything of interest for you here," he said softly to the boy, glancing over at him.

As usual, Kurt looked small. He wore an outfit typical of himself--a loose grey shirt that hung low on his wrists and around his hips, and skinny jeans. His feet, as usual, were bare.

"I am drawn to hospitals sometimes," Kurt replied, wrapping his arms loosely around himself. "Many people die here. Maybe I'm pulled toward death, who knows."

He held out his hands before him, staring at them. Blaine wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling that Kurt was envisioning the blood on them. Unable to stop himself, he walked behind the boy, reaching around him to take his hands. Slowly he lifted them up, kissing each one.

"Kurt," he murmured. "You should go somewhere else. You liked the park, right? Go there. You don't need to be around death all the time."

"But you're here," was all Kurt said, and Blaine's heart broke. He pulled Kurt's hands in and wrapped his arms around the boy from behind. 

_So small_ , he thought. _He's so small_

"Kurt," he said softly, holding the boy close. "No one should surround themselves in darkness."

Kurt said nothing, but he heard a soft gasp, as if the boy was profoundly affected by his words. He bit his lip, feeling strangely guilty. _Don't listen to what I say, Kurt_ , he thought miserably. _I don't know anything._

Suddenly, the silent air was split by the sound of Blaine's phone. It echoed off the tile walls, startling them both. Blaine released Kurt and checked it, and he bit his lip hard.

hurry back somethings wrong 

Blaine took Kurt's hand and they left the bathroom, racing back toward the maternity ward as quickly as possible. Blaine's heart sank when he heard Tina screaming, and he stood hesitantly by the door, edging in only when he saw the look on Mike's face.

Doctors and nurses were crowding around her, and Blaine tugged Mike back, a firm grip on his friend's shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he asked carefully.

"They won't tell me," said Mike, his eyes fixed on his wife. "She just won't stop screaming."

"We should step out," said Blaine, tugging gently on Mike's shoulder. Tina's screams had stopped, but he was sure that was because the doctors had sedated her. He tugged a little more firmly, pulling Mike away and out of the room. 

The next few hours were spent in limbo, waiting horribly for some kind of news. Mike couldn't see him, but Kurt was there-- He lingered near Blaine, occasionally reaching down to hold onto his sleeve, and Blaine wasn't sure why; Kurt didn't know Tina, so why did he look so worried?

Blaine poured his energy into supporting Mike, standing with him as a doctor approached at last to update them. Through the flatline in Blaine's head he heard 'bleeding severely', 'won't stop', 'stablized but not looking good'--

Mike demanded answers the doctor couldn't give, and Blaine stood by him, holding his shoulder and staring at the doctor without really listening--until he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye. 

It was Kurt, walking into the hospital room. 

Blaine cursed to himself and followed as discreetly as he could, standing near the doorway as Kurt approached the hospital bed. Fear curled around his heart. What could Kurt possibly want with Tina? He was certain Kurt would never hurt anyone innocent, but--

 _But am I?_ he thought, and he hated himself for it. He couldn't stop thinking about Callahan's children, though, even after all was said and done--and he gripped the door frame, watching with baited breath as Kurt laid a hand on Tina's shoulder.

There was nothing he could do. He could only watch as Kurt brushed hair away from Tina's face, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. There was a terrible, stretched-out moment of silence, and then she flatlined.

Blaine's blood ran cold. Bodies tore past him, and he heard Mike let out a sob that made his stomach shrivel. He might have yelled out to Kurt, but his voice was lost in the swarm of activity around him; he could only linger helplessly as Kurt continued to stand still, trying to get the boy's attention away from Tina, but-- 

The more he watched, though, the more he realized that Kurt _couldn't_ have been hurting Tina. He was still standing there, after all--touching her shoulder gently, his eyes closed as if concentrating. _If he'd intended to hurt her, he'd be gone by now_ , Blaine told himself, and his eyes narrowed as he watched.

Almost instantly, before the doctors could do anything, Tina's heart started up again. Blaine felt Mike sag against him in relief, and supported his partner while his eyes stayed fixed on the scene.

They widened considerably.

Tina wasn't just stable again, she was--she was _waking up_. With a small groan she stirred, and a nurse rushed to her side to help her sit up. The doctors looked mystified, and Mike cut through them as he rushed to his wife's side.

"Where's my baby?" Tina groaned, and Mike kissed her forehead over and over, laughing and crying with relief.

Blaine turned away. He walked back out into the hallway, slowly recovering from his panic. Reaching up, he slipped his fingers beneath his glasses, touching at his eyes. They came away wet with tears.

\--

Blaine opened up a can of Cherry Coke.

It was too sweet and didn't go down as smoothly as beer, but it was a fine enough replacement. He drained half of it then wandered into the living room area, where Kurt was perched on the couch, staring out the window.

The boy turned and smiled at Blaine. "You've lost weight," he said encouragingly. "Beer makes you fat, you know."

Blaine laughed, then moved to sit on the couch beside Kurt. The sun was low now, and the room was painted a faint blue as night approached. He sighed, exhausted. The day was over, but he wasn't ready to rest yet.

He turned to look seriously at Kurt. "You healed her, didn't you?" he murmured.

The smile slipped from Kurt's face. He looked away as if ashamed, and Blaine reached out to gently grasp his chin and turn his head gently.

"Kurt," he said softly, touching the boy's skin with the tips of his fingers. _So fucking soft_. "What you did... It was incredible. It was a _miracle_ , baby."

"There's no such thing as miracles," Kurt replied, his eyes flickering away. "I need to shower."

Blaine tilted his head and smiled. "Want company?"

Kurt nodded and tugged on Blaine's hand. The trip to the bathroom was silent, and once they were inside Blaine stripped off his shirt and tossed it carelessly to the floor. He moved toward the sink, then angled his head so he could watch Kurt disrobe. 

He felt the breath knocked out of him, and caught Kurt's eye as the boy pushed his shirt off his slender white shoulders. Kurt was terribly thin, fragile like a doll, but Blaine knew about the indomitable strength beneath those frail bones. 

Kurt was the strongest person he had ever met, living or otherwise.

They stepped into the shower and said nothing-- Just stood close together, touching and breathing, all gliding fingertips and glances and tactile comfort. Things didn't grow sexual between them until they were in the bedroom, and Kurt had spread himself out on the bedspread, looking up through his long lashes at Blaine.

Blaine forgot to breathe again, and just stared unblinkingly at Kurt as he slid his fingers over the line of the boy's ribcage.

"Kurt," he said finally. "I don't know. After what I almost did to you--"

A slim finger reached up and pressed against Blaine's lips, silencing him. Kurt took Blaine's hand and pressed it against his own smooth cheek, then smiled.

"No one should surround themselves in darkness," he said.

Something tugged inside Blaine and he leaned down without a second thought, pressing their mouths together. He found himself overcome once again by the pure, clean taste of Kurt--indescribable in its simplicity, its lack of anything worldly or tangible, its inability to be tugged around or weighed down by words. His arms slid underneath the boy's slim body, crushing them together, needing them to be as close as possible.

They spent a long time just kissing, just rubbing, until Kurt slowly drew away. Blaine's mouth immediately found his neck, and Kurt hummed in contenment, dragging brittle fingers through the older man's still-damp curls.

"Blaine," he murmured. Blaine just grunted in reply, still kissing and biting at his neck, and Kurt giggled and tried again. " _Blaine_..."

"Hm?" Blaine mumbled, looking up. 

"I want more than this," Kurt whispered, touching Blaine's cheek with his knuckles, ghosting over his lingering whiskers. "I want..."

Biting his lip, he took Blaine's hand and pushed it down between their bodies. Blaine gasped as he felt his fingers being guided _there_ , and felt his body throb with want.

"Yeah," he said in a husky voice, and pulled up and away from Kurt. He rustled through his bedside drawer and took out a half-empty bottle of lube. He didn't have time to get lost in memories, to think of the last time he used it with Daniel-- This wasn't about repeating a pattern; it was about making a new one.

He applied the lube to his fingers and reached them down, sliding in between Kurt's beautiful thighs to touch and explore. Even as he slid them inside, felt the warmth and tightness of him, he just couldn't stop _looking_ \--at Kurt's jutting hipbones, the soft hair around his cock, the way the boy's lips parted and eyelashes fluttered with each stroke in. Blaine could have done it forever--just spread the boy out and finger him, watch him twist his pretty body and let out those little mewls that made Blaine's cock fucking _ache_... Kurt had reached up a hand to stop him, though, and they were both unable to wait a second longer.

Kurt's hands were pushing gently at his chest and Blaine nodded, lying down on his back. Kurt slid up and over him, straddling his hips, and Blaine had just enough time to apply lube to his own cock when _fuck_ , Kurt was sliding down, and he'd never felt _anything_ so incredible, and he might have sobbed from how good good good it felt when had he _ever_ been this good--

When had he ever been _allowed_ \--

His eyes stayed open the whole time, watching the painfully beautiful sight of Kurt moving over him, and his hands roved over every bit of skin he could touch. His fingers worshipped, sucked the boy in, devoured each sharp angle and little curve and _they weren't close enough_ they could _never_ be close enough-- Blaine felt tears in his throat that didn't reach his eyes, and he finally let himself breathe, hands settling on Kurt's hips as he gently moved the boy up and down.

There was a moment when things became fragmented, when the surreality of Kurt's beauty reached another level, and Blaine found himself reach a strange state of unquestioning acceptance. He didn't say a word as he saw the wings slowly unfold from Kurt's back--sleek and grey-white, slowly rising from his back and spreading wide, beautiful and horrifying at the same time--and instead just pushed himself up on his hands so he could be closer, closer, _closer_.

Kurt's skinny arms reached for Blaine as if desperately seeking comfort, and Blaine sat up so he could tug Kurt fully into his lap. His hands searched the boy's body, dragging through the feathers on his back, clutching and pulling him as close as possible. He was buried completely inside of Kurt, but didn't want to pull out even for a second, even to gain friction-- Instead, he just rocked them slowly, building momentum until he couldn't take it anymore. His hands reclaimed their bruising grip on the boy's hips, and he fucked fucked _fucked_ , touching and kissing and biting and swallowing, taking everything.

A gorgeous sound left Kurt's throat-- He came? Oh fuck, he came. Blaine was dizzy with the knowledge of it, and pushed Kurt down onto the bed, rutting his hips as hard as he could as he desperately clamored for his own release. If the wings had disappeared, he didn't notice-- He clung to it, the pleasure, the _good_ , wrapping himself in it, nearly sobbing from the knowledge that it wouldn't last forever.

It didn't. One split-second of near-painful pleasure and he was spent, collapsing on top of Kurt with a heavy groan. The wings were gone. There was just flesh, and the pain that Blaine had pushed aside, crashing back down on him. 

Two skinny arms curled around him from below, and he pressed his face into Kurt's neck and drifted.

\--

The sun was rising. If Blaine had fallen asleep, he didn't remember when. He lay on his side, his head pillowed on the sweet curved-in flesh of Kurt's belly, absently stroking the boy's thigh as Kurt's fingers smoothed and played with his hair.

"There's one more," Blaine murmured, speaking for the first time in hours. "One more, and then it's over."

Kurt nodded. A silent understanding took place between them, though the same couldn't be said for acceptance. The world was waking up around them, but the world had stopped mattering to them a long time ago.

"One more."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://tenaciouscorpse.tumblr.com/) for fic updates and shenanigans.

Soft hands were in his hair, cool fingertips brushing down the back of his neck. Birds were singing outside; it must have been morning. Early morning, too early-- He burrowed his face into his pillow, too groggy to open his eyes, and slipped back into a light sleep. Between dreams and awareness, he felt breath against the shell of his ear, lips against his skin.

"I love you," a voice whispered. Sweet lips kissed his cheek. "Goodbye."

He mumbled, frowning in his sleep as the warmth beside him was suddenly gone. Chilly, he tugged his blankets more tightly around himself, and fell deeper into sleep.

\--

"You seem happier."

Blaine looked up from where he'd been staring at his feet, and blinked at Rachel from across the room. "Huh?"

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "You seem happier. And I'm not just saying that to stroke my ego; you really are...brighter, somehow."

"Well great!" said Blaine, his eyes lighting up with mock-enthusiasm. "I guess I'm out of here, then!" He made to get up out of his chair, and Rachel mimed throwing her pen at him.

"Sit down," he admonished, though her smile lingered. "I'm proud of you, Blaine. So-- Have you adjusted to the medication, then? Fewer visions? Work going well?" She tilted her head slightly. "Or is someone special in your life?"

 _All of the above_ , thought Blaine. He shrugged. "Medication's been great. Haven't had much need for it, actually. Maybe the ghosts are bored of me or something."

Rachel laughed, then set aside her clipboard, leaning forward. 

"I'm proud of you, Blaine," he said softly. "Really, I am. I won't let you off the hook, though. You know I'm always here for you-- Not just as your therapist, but as your friend. You know that, right?"

"I know," replied Blaine, then raised his eyebrow. "Can you give me love advice?"

"Not as your therapist I can't."

"As a friend then," said Blaine, leaning toward Rachel with big, dark, puppy-dog eyes firmly in place. "Please?"

Rachel sighed heavily. "All right. Off the clock, then."

"What flowers should I get him?" Blaine asked with a devious sort of grin.

There was a moment of silence, then Rachel gasped in delight, covering her cheeks with her hands. "I knew it! I knew it-- What's his name?"

"Ah-ah, not telling, Ms. Therapist."

" _Fine_ ," Rachel groaned, but she was still smiling. "And to answer your question, it is my professional opinion that you should get him ones that match his eyes. Unless they're brown--in that case, I'd go complimentary."

"Blue flowers," Blaine murmured, thinking for a moment; he hadn't seen many blue flowers before. If not blue then maybe white--white to match his skin. Yes. He smiled to himself, thinking about Kurt's beautiful white skin, about how much he'd loved just touching and smoothing his hands over it, about how Kurt smiled and purred in contentment when he did.

"Blaine." Rachel's voice brought him back. 

"Yeah?"

She was still smiling. "I really am happy for you," she said sincerely. "Get out of here, okay? Go buy your man some flowers. I'll see you next week--or not."

Blaine felt a strange pain in his chest, but smiled at her anyway. He left and went straight to the flower shop.

\--

Lilies and forget-me-nots.

Blaine felt like an idiot, a hopeless romantic, but he didn't care. He was smiling as he paid the florist, hoping he'd see Kurt when he returned to the apartment. It wasn't unusual for the boy to disappear now and then, but he'd hoped that would change after--

 _After what? Last night?_ He felt his face heat up and wondered when twenty years had been suddenly subtracted from his age. 

He walked for a while and hears his phone go off. Thinking it was yet another text from Mike, rhapsodizing about his new daughter, he ignored it--until it kept ringing. Quickly he whipped it out of his pocket, holding it to his ear. "Detective Anderson speaking."

"Detective? It--it's me, Sugar Motta."

Frowning, Blaine stopped. He held one hand over the phone, trying to muffle the noise of the street around him. "Sugar-- Are you okay?"

The line was quiet for a long time, and for a moment Blaine thought the call had been lost.

"Sugar?" he repeated.

"I'm here," came her voice, tiny and afraid. 

Alarmed, Blaine stepped into an alley, hoping to get away from the noise. "Sugar, what's wrong? Are you in danger? Is it something at school? If you think someone is listening you hang up and get somewhere safe, I'll get someone there right away--"

"I'm okay," she said, then sniffled. "I'm not in danger. Just--" He heard a distant voice call Sugar's name, and then she said, "I gotta go to class. Sorry for bothering you."

"Sugar--" tried Blaine, but she hung up.

" _Shit._ "

\--

St. Teresa's was nearly an hour's drive outside town, so he left immediately, stashing the flowers carefully in the passenger's seat of his car before thoroughly abusing the speed limit.

The school was just as remote and pristine as ever, and he entered through one of the side doors, trying to look as innocuous as possible. A pair of nuns walked by, and he was sure to give them his most charming smile as they passed-- They blushed and tittered, and then Blaine was alone. Quickly he whipped out his phone and texted Sugar, asking her to meet him in the abandoned lobby.

She arrived moments later, looking surreptitiously behind her as she walked, as if she were afraid of being followed. 

Blaine put a hand on her shoulder. "Sugar, we don't have a lot of time," he said softly, urgently. "I need you to tell me what's going on in this school."

She bit her lip, shaking her head, and he squeezed her shoulder. 

"I know something might be stopping you from telling me exactly what it is," he explained as quietly as he could. "But can you work around it? Can you tell me anything--A clue that might point me in the right direction?"

He heard footsteps approaching and shook her, suddenly panicked. "Sugar, please--"

Instead of speaking, Sugar reached down to tug at her sleeve. She turned her wrist, baring the arrow tattoo, and--Blaine held back a gasp--revealed a horrible mess of scars, as if she'd tried to cut the tattoo off with a knife. They were fresh, still an angry shade of red, and Blaine felt his heart break.

"Oh, Sugar..." he began, but he was cut off by a man's voice.

"Is something wrong, Detective Anderson?"

Headmaster Prewitt stood in the hallway, looking as steely and clean-cut as ever, and Blaine straightened up-- Sugar turned white at the sight of the Headmaster, tugging her sleeve down immediately, and Blaine bit his lip before ushering her away.

"Afternoon, Headmaster," Blaine greeted the other man with a smile, holding out his hand once Sugar had left. He drew it back when Prewitt didn't take it, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Is there any reason you're interrogating my students, Detective?" said Prewitt coldly.  
Blaine's attitude changed completely. "I don't know," he replied crisply. "Is there any reason they're terrified of you?"

Prewitt's expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed. He took a step forward, appearing utterly composed, but Blaine was trained to notice everything--and he could pick up on the way Prewitt's lips twitched just so, the way he gripped his own wrist just a little bit tighter. 

"I would like you to leave my school now," Prewitt said evenly, and his voice contained a hint of malice. "And do not return. And I _will_ be talking with your superiors about this."

"Fine," Blaine replied in a voice equally as cool and threatening. "And I'll pull all the strings I can to turn this place over. You're hiding something, Headmaster. And I'm going to find out what it is before another innocent child is murdered."

He turned away without another word and left Prewitt behind him. He could feel the man's steely eyes on his back all the way outside, cold and brimming with barely-restrained fury, but he didn't feel a single trace of fear.

Prewitt was alive, after all. 

\--

 _Flowers first_ , Blaine told himself as he climbed the steps to his apartment. _Blake after_.

Blaine had spent the morning organizing his information about Timothy Blake--printing it, sorting it, and filing it carefully on his desk. It had been easy enough to find; Blake had a criminal record, after all, and was only out of prison due to parole (and an attorney who Blaine had later came to learn was named Sebastian Smythe). 

He'd hoped Kurt would be waiting for him when he opened the door, but his apartment was empty. Disheartened, he walked into the study and set down the flowers on his desk--and realized a split second later that all his information on Timothy Blake was gone.

Alarmed, he swept through his desk, searching, convinced he'd misplaced it all--but with every moment that passed, he slowly began to accept what had happened. 

_Kurt. Kurt must have_...

He was jolted to his feet by the sound of the buzzer. _Who in all the hells--_ He picked up the receiver and was startled to hear Finn Hudson on the other end. Concerned, he buzzed the other man in, and waited anxiously in the kitchen for him to appear.

Finn seemed to fill the entire kitchen when he entered in, still in uniform and clearly anxious. He took off his hat and smiled awkwardly at Blaine, shifting on his feet.

"Uh, hey," he said softly. "I just... I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by... Is this a bad time?"

"No," Blaine lied quickly, shaking himself out of his discomfort. "Not at all, please, come in. I'm fresh out of beer, but I can get you some coffee if you'd like?"

“Yeah, dude, coffee sounds great,” said Finn with a grateful smile.

Blaine ushered him into the living room to sit, then bustled about making coffee. He prayed the visit would be quick-- He needed to find Kurt, to track him down and stop him before he did anything rash. Hunting Timothy Blake was supposed to be Blaine’s job--what in _hell_ had convinced Kurt that he could do something like that on his own? 

He entered the living room with two steaming cups, and found Finn seated on the couch with his hands knotted together. Blaine strode forward and handed him a cup, and he smiled gratefully.

“Sorry for just showing up out of the blue,” Finn said awkwardly. “I just-- You know, I never had a chance to thank you. For running me to the hospital that day, for sticking around and stuff. And-- I mean, I know I was pissed about it before, but the stuff you did for Kurt’s case was cool, too. You’re a good guy, you know? And--”

He froze in mid-sentence, his eyes glued to the love seat. They’d transformed almost instantly--unsure but warm to dark and hard with unchecked anger. Confused, Blaine followed his gaze, and his blood ran cold.

Finn was on his feet, striding toward the love seat to yank the small bear from where it had been buried between the cushions. He thrust it at Blaine, furious.

“Where did you get this?” he cried. “You tell me right now-- Where the _fuck_ did you get this?”

Blaine threw up his hands, utterly pale. “I don’t know, I have no idea what--”

“It’s Kurt’s bear!” Finn roared. He towered over Blaine, and seemed twice as big in his anger. “It’s Liza! He was buried with it-- How the hell did you get this, you sick fuck?”

“Finn, you need to calm down,” said Blaine carefully. His heart was racing, and his mind was clamoring for a way out of this. There really wasn’t any, short of telling Finn the truth, and-- “Please, I can explain...”

“You’d better fucking explain,” said Finn in a tremulous voice, and tore out his gun from the holster on his belt. Blaine went cold, taking a step back, terrified. Finn was emotional enough to use that gun without thinking, Blaine knew it, and Christ what was he going to do he had no other _choice_ \--

“Kurt left it there,” Blaine blurted out, the edges of his mind blurring and vibrating as his gaze went right through the barrel of the gun to the bullet hole in Daniel’s forehead. “He stays here with me, Finn. I’ve seen him, I’ve talked to him--”

“Are you fucking _insane_?” Finn cried, thrusting the gun at Blaine. His expression was twisted up in anger and pain, and there were tears in his eyes. “Christ, some sick fuck rapes and kills him and now you--you’re--”

“It’s not just him,” Blaine kept going, plowing forward in a desperate plea for his life. He didn’t understand it at all; it wasn’t as if he had any reason to live. 

_Just give it up_ , came a voice through all the static in his brain. _He’ll pull that trigger and you’ll finally rest. You’ll finally be happy. You can see Daniel again, tell him you’re sorry--_

His body seemed to think differently. “I see them all the time,” he continued. “The dead. _Ghosts_. It’s how I have such a good track record in the field, Finn, and why I re-opened your brother’s case, Finn, because I _see_ him--”

“Shut up!” Finn was closer now, and the barrel of the gun was just brushing Blaine’s hairline, and something was shrieking in his head-- “Shut up, you fucking lunatic--”

“Karofsky didn’t kill Kurt, Finn!” Blaine shouted as cold sweat poured down his neck. “It was a group of students from St. Theresa’s-- Lisbeth Frankel, Robert and Ellen Callahan-- You heard about their deaths, didn’t you? All apparently natural, all occuring within a week of one another-- It’s not a coincidence, Finn! If you’d just let me _explain_ \--”

Pain exploded on the side of his face before he even registered that Finn had moved at all. Blaine found himself sprawled on the floor, staring at the ground, just as he had when Kurt had hit him with the beer bottle only nights before. 

Finn pulled back his fist and holstered his gun. “I’m done with you,” he said in a deep voice that was so terribly cold and pained that it turned Blaine inside out. He heard the man’s footsteps as he started to walk away, and couldn’t bear to watch him leave.

Instead, he whispered one last thing. “He wants you to stop blaming yourself.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?” Finn snapped, sounding tense.

Blaine straightened up, brushing away blood from where it was dribbling from his split lip. “He told me you quit football after he died. That you gave up all your dreams of being an actor. He said you wanted to become a cop so you could find his killer and shoot him yourself.”

Finn was crying. “Shut up,” he repeated, though softer this time.

“The night before Kurt was taken,” Blaine continued, “you were late picking him up from school. So you blamed yourself. You blamed yourself for so long, but Finn, it’s _not your fault_. And Kurt never blamed you.”

“Stop--”

“He’s sorry,” Blaine pressed on. “He said you fought the night before-- You’d said you wanted to join the army and he begged you not to. He’s sorry, Finn. You should live the life you want--”

“But I’m not!” Finn cut him off, and Blaine finally looked up at him. The tall man was leaning against the far wall, his hand pressed against his mouth as he struggled to hold back his tears. 

“I’m not,” he repeated. “You’re right, I-- Fuck, I wanted to be a cop so bad so I could find that bastard, but-- We did find him, we locked him up, and I feel _nothing_. Kurt’s still fucking dead and the last thing I said to him was to leave me the hell alone--”

Slowly Blaine pushed himself up and started walking tentatively toward Finn. When it was clear that Finn wasn’t about to hit or shoot him, he gently lay a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“You’re a good brother, Finn,” Blaine said softly. “And you can still help Kurt.”

Finn looked up, incredulous. “I’m still not saying I believe you,” he said uneasily, his hold on Liza tightening. Blaine took his hand from his shoulder quickly.

“Rachel knows,” he said quietly. “She was the only one, up until now.”

“About Kurt?” said Finn, confused.

“No, about--my ability.” Blaine moved over to the couch near where Finn was standing and lowered himself into it, feeling weary. “That’s why she prescribed those pills for me-- So I’d stop seeing them. No one in the force knows, not even Mike, and Finn--”

He turned his head slightly, looking at Finn imploringly. “Don’t tell anyone else. Please, this is complicated enough without my secret getting out.”

Finn still looked troubled, like a man who wasn’t sure if he were being mocked or not. Blaine had a headache. 

He left the couch in search of aspirin, and returned with a large bottle and an ice pack for his split lip. Finn had moved to the couch, and frowned when Blaine re-entered the room.

“Sorry,” Finn mumbled, looking contrite.

Blaine shrugged. “It happens more often than you think.” He lowered himself onto the couch beside Finn, carefully holding the ice against his lip. Finn reached over to open up the bottle of aspirin for him.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Finn said carefully. “But I’m confused. You said I could still help Kurt. What did you mean?”

There was a pause during which Blaine popped three aspirin and carefully swallowed them with his coffee. He shuddered a bit before continuing. “I meant what I said. One of Kurt’s killers is still out there. And I think he went out after him all on his own.”

Finn’s eyes were very wide. “So he’s like--a ghost? Is he see-through and stuff?”

Blaine sighed heavily. “Finn, I’d love to explain all this to you another day, but I’m kind of pressed for time right now.” He looked earnestly at the other man, his eyes weary. “You want to know how you can help?”

Finn nodded.

“Cover for me,” said Blaine. “At the precinct. I need to-- I have to find Kurt. He’s out there, and he needs my help.”

“I can go too,” said Finn, rising to his feet. 

Blaine shook his head. “No, it’s-- It’s too conspicuous. I need you to do this for me-- No, for Kurt. I’ll explain everything once this is said and done, but for now I just really need your faith in me. “

Finn was quiet for a while. He stared down at the bear in his hand, looking conflicted. Blaine was moving, tugging his jacket back on and grabbing his keys off the desk. He didn’t look at Finn again until he was at the door.

“I’ll do this with or without your help,” he said softly. “I just-- It’ll mean a lot to Kurt. I know it will--"

"Shut up about Kurt," said Finn sharply. "I-- Fine, I'll do it. But--" He rose to his full height, towering over Blaine, but he still seemed very small in that moment.

"Tell me one thing," he said softly. "Is Kurt suffering?"

For once, Blaine had no idea what to say. For all he was hiding, he still hated telling outright lies. Still-- Finn had been in so much pain for so long. 

"He's going to be all right," he answered softly. "And he doesn't hurt anymore. The...the pain of his death, he doesn't feel it anymore. So that's...good."

Finn was quiet. Blaine looked up at him long enough to see him nod.

"Help him," the taller man said softly. "I don't care how-- Just help him. Please."

"I will," Blaine promised. Without another word he tugged on his jacket and walked back out into the cold, and he had no idea what he was leaving behind.

\--

Rain was streaking down in buckets, flooding over the windshield as Blaine drove as fast as he could down the highway. It was quite deserted; he was following a truck route, and it was well past rush hour. The sky was a tired, deep grey, forming a tight tunnel the road.

The truck stop came into view, and Blaine swung into it-- He couldn't see Kurt yet, but he could _feel_ him, that subtle light that drew him in and never let go. He turned on his hazards and stepped out, wrapping his coat tightly around him as the rain assaulted him on all sides.

Kurt was standing underneath the awning, looking small and frail and otherwordly, a pale white thing in the middle of smothering grey. Blaine removed his coat and wrapped it around Kurt's little shoulders, drawing him in.

"Why did you go without me?" he murmured. Kurt's mouth opened to reply, but then a blinding light flooded their vision as a truck pulled up next to the building.

"You all right, buddy?" a man's voice called down. "That your car on the side of the road there?"  
Blaine looked up and saw the grizzled face of Timothy Blake looking down at him in concern. He stepped forward, blinking rain out of his eyes.

"Engine problems," he replied, shouting over the sound of the rain. "And no cell reception out here. Think you could--"

"Give you a lift?" Blake finished for him. "Sure thing. Hop in."

Blaine resisted a glance at Kurt as he climbed up into the truck, shaking water out of his hair. He sat in the passenger's side on the long seat, with Kurt in the middle. Blake shifted gears and began to drive, cutting through the downpour.

It was silent for a while, then Blake spoke up. "Triple A is just a few miles up here. What are you doin' in the middle of nowhere like this anyway?"

There was a brief silence, then Blaine replied in a carefully measured voice, "Not sure. Maybe looking for someone cute to pick up."

Blake laughed. "Nice and honest," he replied. "Well, ain't many out here, I can tell you that."

"Yeah?" Blaine continued in that careful tone, reaching slowly into his pocket. His hand wrapped around the gun there, squeezing it lightly. Kurt was staring intently at Blake, his eyes unblinking. 

"I'm going to kill him," said Kurt softly. "You should look away."

Blaine didn't. He kept talking. "I've been dying for a cute little piece of ass. Where do you find it, man? None where I'm from, I'll tell you."

"Mm, man, you gotta look in the right place," Blake laughed. "Like the high schools. There was one--man, won't forget it. Sweet as hell, pretty white skin, blue eyes... I mean, I ain't no queer, but you should have seen this kid. They don't make 'em like that anymore, let me tell you--"

"Blaine," said Kurt urgently, his voice rising. "Look away--"

"Tell me about it," Blaine continued, his voice slightly raised. "About him."

"Man, it was years ago!" Blake laughed, and he shrugged. "Kid ended up dead, god knows what happened. But I would have loved a crack at that. Real innocent, sweet, you know?"

"Young?" Blaine asked between gritted teeth.

"Teenager," said Blake, and he licked his lips. "Looked younger, though. Probably no hair on him." His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and he licked his lips. "Sweetest little things, definitely a virgin. It's too bad that psycho Karofsky got to him, I'd have loved to rip apart that kid's tight little--"

" _Blaine_!" Kurt shrieked.

If Kurt was planning on doing anything, he didn't get a chance to. Blaine's gun was out in a split second, and he fired one shot right into the side of Blake's head.

Blood and brain splattered the windows, and Blaine heard Kurt shriek as he reached over the grab the wheel and steer the truck as best he could. Vomit rose to the surface of his throat as Blake's body rolled onto his lap, and he tried to ignore it as he managed to steady the vehicle long enough to park it.

He began cleaning up the crime scene as swiftly and efficiently as possible, stashing Blake's body in the woods nearby. It took a long time, and he feared Kurt would be gone when he returned--but he was there, still seated, a look of absolute shock on his face.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why, Blaine?"

Blaine turned the ignition and began to drive. He was quiet as he parked the truck at the stop and guided Kurt outside and into his own car. The rain had slowed, but its descent was still relentless, washing everything away.

He turned the ignition and began to drive. For a while there was no sound but for the pattering rain, and then Blaine was the one to speak.

"You have enough blood on your hands," he said softly. "No more. It's done now. You'll never have to kill anyone again, Kurt. You can go now."

Kurt was quiet. For a while he thought Kurt was still shocked by Blaine's actions, but then he spoke again.

"I'm still here," he whispered. His voice was so small Blaine had to lean slightly to hear it. When he did, his blood ran cold.

"Blake's dead," Kurt continued. "All of them are dead. So why am I still here?"

Blaine didn't speak. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Kurt just kept repeating it. 

"I'm still here, Blaine. I'm still here."


	9. Chapter 9

Kurt was inconsolable when they returned home. Blaine carried him into the house and straight to bed, cradling him as he cried. They stayed like that for a long time--just pressed close, and Blaine tried to comfort Kurt and at the same time fight the relief he felt.

 _Selfish. Some things never change_.

They made love again-- Blaine covered Kurt with his body, shielding him, and watched his face as he pushed inside him over and over. Kurt's eyes stayed half-open, searching Blaine's as he wrapped his thin legs around him and surrendered. Their lips met in the middle, over and over, just like _they_ had done-- Met somewhere between life and death, crossed lines that were never meant to be crossed.

Afterward Blaine lay on his back, holding Kurt against his chest. Blaine's fingertips dragged against the boy's smooth skin, trying to soothe him even though he knew he couldn't. What could he say to yet another soul trapped on Earth forever? He never had any words for the ones before--and now here was one he loved, and he was still completely useless.

It was quiet for a long time but for the distant echo of passing cars, and the light pattering of rain on the window. When Kurt finally spoke, his voice wove effortlessly through the silence.

"I thought I'd see them again," he whispered. "My mom and dad. I thought I'd be with them right now."

"I know, baby," Blaine murmured, his heart aching. "I know. Shh."

"What am I going to do?" Kurt continued as if he hadn't heard anything at all. "You'll grow old, Blaine. You'll move on. You'll forget me--"

"No," said Blaine more forcefully, and turned Kurt's head to look at him. "Look at me. I will _never_ forget you. Do you realize what you've done for me? What meeting you has done to my life?"

Kurt shook his head, his eyes wide, and Blaine held him closer, stroking his hair.

"There aren't any words, Kurt," he whispered. "None. You--" His fingers clenched in Kurt's hair as his heart constricted painfully. "Just you. Nothing else, Kurt. You're more alive than I've ever been. And you brought _me_ to life."

Blaine looked away from Kurt, and pressed the boy against his heart. He felt tears on his skin.

"I'm going to find a way to save you," he continued in a low voice. "I _will_. I won't let you be trapped here, Kurt. I--"

His eyes went wide as he was struck with a sudden realization. He felt as if a drop of cold water had slipped into his blood, sliding to the very tips of his fingers.

"Prewitt," he said softly.

"What?" he heard Kurt say. Heart beating wildly, he sat bolt upright and took Kurt by the shoulders.

"St. Teresa's," he explained, his eyes awake and alive. "The Ecstasy Club. It all makes _sense_ now, Kurt-- They created you, Lisbeth said. She called you an _avenging angel_. When they killed you-- It was a ritual, to _make_ something."

"Okay..." Kurt's eyes were searching, confused.

"An avenger," Blaine pressed on, his thumbs pressing into Kurt's shoulders. "That's what you are. You weren't made to hunt down and kill them, Kurt. You were made to kill a _specific person_."

"Who, though?" Kurt asked, and he looked frightened.

"I think I have an idea," said Blaine, slipping out of bed. He started rustling around for his clothes, his heart beating a mile a minute. "It's just going to be you and me, though. Get dressed, okay? We're going to St. Teresa's."

\--

"Mike? How's the Blake case going?"

"Cold. Officer Hudson told me the guy was a pederast, though, so I'm not exactly disappointed."

Blaine pulled on his coat as he headed out the door, Kurt close by his side. It was raining softly, and the night was crawling in. He was quiet on the phone for a moment as he buckled in, eyes fixed on the water streaming down the windshield.

"Blaine? You okay?"

"Yeah," he replied. "When we see each other next, I wanna have a talk with you."

"You're not in love with me, are you?"

Blaine laughed. "You wish. Nah, it's just-- I have to tell you something. You'll wait up for me, right? You've always waited up for me."

"You're kind of freaking me out," said Mike, his voice uneasy.

"Don't worry about it," Blaine replied. "I'll see you around, okay? Give the girls kisses for me."

He hung up. Kurt was beside him in the car, looking concerned. Blaine reached out to trail his knuckles over the boy's smooth cheek, let his fingers slide down his neck. _Beautiful_ , he thought. _I've never seen anything more beautiful, not ever._

"Let's go," he said with a soft smile, and started up the car.

\--

St. Teresa's wasn't nearly as charming and picturesque in the rain. Instead it looked like something from a children's author who wrote scary stories, all dark and desaturated yet somehow eerily whimsical at the same time. Blaine pulled up a far distance away walked up the slope in the rain, confident that Kurt would follow him.

He could feel Kurt's unease, and he reached out to grasp the boy's hand tightly until they made it to the building. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked purposefully inside.

It was dark and strangely empty. What time was it, anyway? Blaine didn't bother checking; he kept on walking until he reached Prewitt's office, and found that the door was open just a fraction. Slowly and cautiously he pushed it the rest of the way and stepped inside. It was empty.

There was no sound but for the thrumming of the rain on the windows and the click of Blaine's footsteps. He felt Kurt squeeze his hand.

"He's not here," the boy said softly, and Blaine said nothing, just walked forward to the desk and began to search through it. It contained mostly textbooks and religious literature, but Blaine unearthed a small leather-bound journal from underneath a large King James Bible that looked old and well-used. He cracked it open and flipped through a few pages, fascinated--but then he heard a shriek, and stuffed the book into his pocket as he straightened up immediately.

"Kurt--?"

"I'd stay out of this," came a familiar voice behind him. Blaine barely had time to turn his head before he felt a cold, strong hand grasp his forearm and wrench it behind his back. He tried to throw out his other arm to hit the man behind him--but then it occurred to him...

"Daniel?" he said in a tiny voice. The ghost behind him gripped him tighter, then reached around to grasp his chin and forcibly direct his face upward.

"I got you, baby," Daniel whispered. "Look."

Kurt was being restrained by Dave Karofsky and Timothy Blake. Kurt was crying out and struggling while Karofsky nuzzled his neck and hair, and Blake licked his lips as he looked over Kurt's body. Lisbeth Frankel stood by and watched, a cold look on her face, while Robert and Ellen Callahan cowered in a corner.

"So what do you think, Lissy?" said Blake, circling Kurt and Karofsky. "Should Dave and I take turns, or should we just skewer him on both ends? I'll take his mouth."

"Leave him alone!" Blaine screamed, but he was ignored. 

"Don't involve me in your depravity," Lisbeth replied, disgusted. "Get your retribution quickly, if you don't mind. I'd rather not witness this."

"No," said Blake, closing in on Kurt and seizing him by the jaw. "We're gonna drag this out. You thought it was bad the first time, Kurtie? Well it's gonna be much worse now that you can't _die_. We got all eternity to play with you..."

He glanced over his shoulder at Blaine. "And you, buddy, that bullet fucking _hurt_. You're gonna watch." Blake moved to unfasten his pants. "Hold him down, Davey."

"No!" Blaine screamed. He struggled hard against Daniel's hold, fighting with all his might--until suddenly, Daniel wasn't there anymore. None of them were there anymore.

They'd disappeared.

Kurt fell immediately to his knees, and Blaine rushed toward him. He put an arm around Kurt protectively as Headmaster Prewitt came into view, dressed sharply as usual, a rather nonchalant expression on his deeply lined face. He moved to his desk and placed upon it the candle he'd been holding, which he'd undoubtedly used to summon the ghosts.

Blaine helped Kurt to his feet then moved in front of him, walking slowly toward Prewitt.

"You called them here," he said in a low voice, deeply shaken. "You have the Gift too."

"In a manner of speaking," Prewitt replied. He snuffed out the candle then moved to light the lamp near the window, casting the room in amber light. It was deceptively warm, and cast shadows that stretched up the walls of the ceiling like misshapen trees.

"I get it now," Blaine continued, speaking carefully. "Most of it, anyway. The Ecstasy Club wasn't a student-formed worship group. You organized it. You took these troubled kids and manipulated them into becoming your own personal cult."

"You make it sound so diabolical," said Prewitt, chuckling as he mindlessly organized his office. Blaine stood his ground. 

"You hurt them." Blaine stepped closer. "You made them hate themselves so much that they had no one else to turn to. You became their only salvation, didn't you? And just in case any of them got any ideas, you silenced them so they'd die if they told anyone what you were doing. They _had_ to obey you, or they'd never be free. And some of them were so brainwashed they _killed_ people-- And killing Kurt Hummel, doing terrible things to him-- They wanted to be free from you _that badly_. And Jeffrey Pine--"

"Jeffrey Pine was a lost soul," said Prewitt softly as he straightened out a stack of paper. "Instead of offering up his own suffering, he chose to offer up another's. Unfortunate. Only few are strong enough to find true enlightenment. Miss Frankel came close, but..."

"Look, I get it," said Blaine, moving even closer. Kurt stood close by, utterly silent, and his eyes flickered downward as Blaine's hand moved slowly toward the pistol at his hip. "Being Gifted is more like being cursed. That's what this is about, isn't it? Seeing the dead every day... It can eat away at you, at your soul. I understand. It makes you hate the world."

Kurt's eyes fixed on Blaine, his lips parting. The other man's face looked suddenly so much older, and his beautiful eyes looked haunted. He could see something at war there--and he realized with a jolt that Blaine had never met anyone else who could see ghosts before now.

If Prewitt was at all troubled by what Blaine was saying, he didn't show it. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at," he said softly. He'd opened the top drawer of his desk, and his hand lingered inside it, slipping underneath a false bottom. 

"If you're claiming that I have some sort of sixth sense, I'm afraid you're mistaken. God merely shows me the truth of the world. I doubt it's anything like what you experience, young man. The dead only come to me when I ask for them. Like my former students-- They're here because I asked them to come. Because I knew you'd come here tonight. To arrest me, perhaps? Or maybe you're simply desperate to find someone like you, who knows your pain."

"And you're all about pain, aren't you?" Blaine scoffed. His fingers curled around his gun. For all his ambivalence turned dislike for the man before, he now felt nothing but unadulterated hatred. He’d never hated another human being so much in his life.

"To suffer is to be closer to God," Prewitt continued. "I have been enlightened, dear boy. What you call the Gift is truly a blessing from God. I have completed my mission, and now I’m ready to meet Him.”

He smiled at Blaine, and it was horrible to behold. “Just as St. Teresa claimed,” he murmured. “Take your pain, my son. Face it. Stop running from it. Then take that pistol of yours and put it in your mouth. Only then will you know God."

Blaine's eyes went cold. All the anger and pain he’d felt from the first time he met that little girl with the braids--all the confusion and sorrow, all of the guilt, all of the unfinished business--seemed to rush up from within and consume him. For a moment, he was the least alive person in the room. 

He said, "There is no God."

The trigger was pulled.

\--

It happened in a fraction of a second. Blaine whipped out his pistol, and Kurt's hands flew to cover his ears as the resounding gunshot split the air around them. What followed was screaming, glaring silence, and Kurt finally lowered his hands to look at the scene before him.

Prewitt was still standing, perfectly unharmed, slowly lowering a handgun. Blaine had gone horribly stiff beside him--and Kurt nearly couldn't bear to face what he knew was reality, blunt and inescapable before him. The moment lingered, a still frame, frozen in place. Then Blaine fell to his knees.

"No--" Kurt choked out the word in the pleading voice of a frightened child, and he reached out to catch Blaine as his body crumpled to the floor. The weight of it dragged him down too, and he knelt on the ground with Blaine in his arms, cradling him. 

"No, no, no..." He pressed his hand against the blood blossoming over Blaine's shirt, but his hands couldn't stop it. They weren't alive anymore.

He ought to have contemplated vanishing then, only to reappear before Prewitt and rip the man's eyes from his sockets. But all thoughts of revenge seemed to bleed out with Blaine on the floor. He had no desire to kill anymore. He had no lingering spirit of vengeance. All he had was the man he loved slowly inching toward death in his arms, and he would bring back to life every person he'd ever slaughtered in the name of retribution if he could stop it.

A second gunshot rattled the air, and another body fell to the ground. Kurt didn't have to look over at the desk to know that Prewitt had turned the handgun on himself.

"Blaine," Kurt whispered, stroking his lover's hair. Bloody tears streaked down his cheeks. "Blaine... Can you hear me?"

"Prewitt," Blaine croaked. The inside of his lips was red with blood, and Kurt stifled a sob. "Kurt-- Kill him..."

"He's dead," Kurt whispered. "But it's okay. You did your best, you're okay... Shh, please don't try to talk. I'm gonna try to heal you, okay? Just like I did with Tina--"

"No," said Blaine, and he struggled to get each word out. His face was rapidly losing color. "Y-you've done enough. And I-- I think this is it, Kurt. I can be with you. I want--"

"No you don't!" said Kurt shrilly, gripping him tighter. "You-- _everyone_ \--you think death is some kind of big escape, like it'll make everything better, but it _doesn't_ , Blaine-- You're not ready. _I_ wasn't ready. And I won't let you be trapped like I am, Blaine, I _won't_."

Everything was sinking in. Prewitt was dead, but Kurt hadn't been the one to kill him. Kurt's spirit was still lingering, and even though his killers were all dead, he felt no peace. All he had were tethers, chains holding him down that would continue to do so until the end of time. 

"Revenge didn't free me," he continued in a low whisper, stroking Blaine's hair as the other man lay heavy in his arms, eyes closed, weakly sucking in breath. "Nothing will free me. But that's okay. Because that's not why I'm here. I'm not an avenging angel." He leaned down and kissed Blaine's forehead. "I'm your angel."

He kept stroking Blaine's sweaty hair--then softly, sweetly, he began to hum. Through the creeping numbness and the taste of death in his throat, Blaine felt the warm things close around him again, just like he had on the night he'd first met Daniel's ghost. Wings, folding around him. Protecting him. 

"Kurt," he rasped. "What're you...doing..."

Kurt said nothing in reply, just cradling Blaine close as he hummed something sweet and timeless and achingly sad. Somehow, the numbness seemed to be lifting, and Blaine's vision cleared. The taste of death rolled back down his throat. His heart quickened and he began to panic. 

"Kurt--" He didn't know how it was happening, but he had to stop it. Somehow. "Kurt, stop-- Please!"

The warmth around Blaine seemed to fade, and so did Kurt. Like water slipping from his hands, the boy seemed to trickle away from him, and he reached out-- He had to get him back. Kurt couldn't go away; he _needed_ Kurt. The world seemed to suddenly exist without him, though, and Blaine couldn't remember when he'd ended up on the floor, curled up on his side, utterly alone. It was like Kurt's entire existence had been erased.

Blaine lay there for a long while, in shock, surrounded by the scent of his own blood. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling for a bullet hole--but there was only flesh, warm and alive. 

_No_ , he thought. _No no no_... It repeated over and over in his head like a frantic prayer, until he realized he was saying it out loud between choked sobs-- "No. Kurt-- No... No, it should have been me... It would have been me, goddamnit--"

It was as if something was attempting to wrench his heart out of his chest, but found his ribcage blocking it--and instead of letting go, it just pulled and pulled and pulled until Blaine thought he would scream from the pain. He curled his arms around himself and wept like a child, so overcome with grief that he didn't sense the presence of a ghost materializing beside him.

"Are you done?" came the dry sound of Daniel's voice. Blaine's sobbing had dissolved into quiet whimpering, and he stared blankly ahead, refusing to look up at the ghost of his ex-fiance.

"What do you want, Daniel," he said in a flat, broken voice that did not sound like his own. 

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. "I want you to get up," he said simply. "It stopped raining."

That made Blaine look up at last. Daniel was standing above him, along with Lisbeth's younger sister and Susan Langdon. Blaine pushed himself off the floor and stared, confused. "Why are you all here?" he asked, his voice tense.

"Kurt went away to save you," said Lisbeth's sister in her raspy, too-low voice. "He went away forever, probably..." 

"I know," said Blaine hollowly. "He shouldn't have."

"But he did," said Susan. "You get a second chance. None of us got that, Detective... Even though you tried your hardest. And we're grateful."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Basically, we think you should get off your ass and appreciate the fact that you get to live another day. You should be grateful, too."

"But it was all for nothing," Blaine croaked staring down at his hands. "I wanted to save Kurt so he could go on, so he could be with his family again...and now he's... Where is he?"

"I guess you have to keep living and find out," said Daniel.

In his pocket, Blaine felt his phone vibrate. There were flashes of blue and red outside the window-- _Mike_ , he thought suddenly, and his hand darted down to the inside of his coat to pull out the journal he'd taken from Prewitt's desk. A quick flip-through was enough to prove that there was enough evidence within to prove the headmaster's guilt--and he had an entire school of kids who could now testify against him.

He wasn't done yet.

Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed himself to his feet. The ghosts around him were already starting to fade. Soon the only one that was left was Lisbeth's little sister. Blaine had seen Daniel go and, strangely, didn't feel a twinge of guilt or regret. Lisbeth's sister seemed to sense this, and she reached out to touch Blaine's hand.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I'm gonna go There now. If I see Kurt, I'll tell him that you decided to keep living."

Blaine squeezed her hand in thanks, and then she was gone.

The sirens got closer, and Blaine heard the doors of the school slam open. The footsteps of students and teachers who had awakened filled the hallways, as well as the sound of Mike's voice, calling his name. 

Blaine slipped the journal back inside his coat and grabbed his gun off the floor. He turned and went for the door, ready to fix this, ready to end it.

He wasn't done yet.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Thank you so much for reading!

19 YEARS LATER.....

The sun streamed through the blinds on the window behind Blaine's desk, sprawling over the wooden surface of the desk and the large store-bought cake that now sat upon it. Blaine's colleagues were gathered tightly around it, helping themselves, chattering happily until Mike popped a bottle of sparkling juice nearby and cleared his throat loudly.

Blaine paused from shaking what had to be the fiftieth hand that day, weary but perfectly content. He grinned widely as Mike raised the glass in his direction.

"Just to remind you all that it is not free cake at work day," Mike said pointedly, "I propose a toast. Not only did this guy single-handedly solve one of the biggest crimes our city has ever known, but he's managed to kick our butts into gear for fifteen years--not an easy feat. So let's hear it for the captain on his fifteenth anniversary, huh?" He lifted his glass. "To Blaine Anderson!"

" _To Blaine Anderson!_ "

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause, and Blaine waved it off, though the corners of his eyes were deeply wrinkled with his smile. Mike clapped him on the back happily as everyone took their pieces of cake and dispersed. 

"Watch it," Blaine joked. "I'm an old man now. This back isn't what it used to be."

"Oh please," said Mike, rolling his eyes. "You're not officially an old man until you've reached sixty. And besides, you're in better shape than most of the officers around here. Which reminds me--"

"I'm not going to start dating again," Blaine finished for him, rolling his eyes. "I'm--"

"Fifty-five," Mike finished for him in turn. "I know, I know. Which is the new twenty-five, by the way. Anyhow, I need to go-- It's my turn to pick up Amber from dance class. You relax your tired bones, old man."

Amber was Mike's second child; their first daughter, Bonnie, was already in college. Blaine let the jibe go and laughed, and didn't let the sadness touch his heart until Mike was gone. It really had been above and beyond for his friend to throw an anniversary party for him, and he appreciated it-- But really, Blaine preferred solitude as much as he always had. It wasn't the desolate sort of existence he had before; he simply had no desire to see anyone romantically. He spent his time honoring Kurt's wishes and living life as fully as he could--starting with a move to a new apartment, one where he could look out the window and see pigeons nesting in the steeples of beautiful old churches--but his heart was still so full of Kurt that he couldn't bear to let in anyone else.

He still had no idea what had happened, but something had changed. The spirits were gone; the prescription Rachel had given him was working, and he no longer felt any need to see her--for appointments, that is; he visited her and Finn every other weekend for card games, in between his bi-weekly outings with Mike's family. Indeed, things were clearer now, and for the first time he could finally describe himself as _alive_.

Things wound down at the station, and Blaine returned to his desk just as a woman with auburn hair approached from the lobby. She beamed at him and he blinked in reply, uncertain.

"Detective!" the woman mock-admonished in a breathy sort of voice. "I can't believe you don't recognize me!" Her long fingernails were painted fuschia, Blaine noticed, and he put two and two together.

"Sugar?"

"Uh-huh!" she replied with a blindingly white, toothy smile. "I inherited my daddy's piano company and now I'm super rich. I'm in town though because I wanted to show my son the crappy city I used to live in so I wanted to visit and say hi and thank you."

Blaine stared, then nodded. "Well-- That's very nice of you, Sugar. Thanks."

His eyes followed her hand as she reached into her purse. The arrow tattoo on her wrist was gone--mostly removed, with the lingering ink forming a flower instead. When her hand emerged it was clutching a pair of keys, which she thrust at him.

"And these are keys for the new car I bought you," she said, almost as an afterthought. "It's in the parking lot."

Blaine's jaw dropped. "What-- Sugar, you didn't have to--"

"I know," she said simply. Ignoring the curious look from a passing officer, she moved around Blaine's desk and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Blaine stiffened self-consciously but didn't move. 

"Thank you," she whispered. "All of us thank you. You saved us, Detective Anderson. You're our angel."

Blaine slowly relaxed. After a few moments, he patted her awkwardly on the back. He was relieved when she finally pulled away and handed him the keys and a small card.

"What's this?" he asked, glancing at the card.

"Oh that's a gift card for crappy little coffee shop you like," she said with a sniff and a shrug, brushing at her teary eyes with her fingers. Blaine smiled.

"You really live up to your name, Sugar," he said softly. She shrugged,

"I get that a lot," she replied, then turned to leave. "I gotta go. I hate this place; it smells like fish. I wanna go home." She paused at the door. "Bye Detective."

He waved back. "Bye Sugar."

Once she left he looked down at the gift card and the keys, and then out the window. His eyes found one of the churches in the distance and fixed on it--at the old, crumbling, beautiful cross--and felt no disdain. 

\--

At break time Blaine drove to the nearby coffee shop with the windows down, enjoying the smooth ride despite himself. He ignored the fact that the sleek sports car screamed midlife crisis and walked into the shop with a spring in his step, heading for the counter.

"A medium soy latte, please," he ordered. 

"Is that all?" said the barista. 

Blaine's heart stopped. He looked up sharply at the barista, and for a moment was quite convinced he was hallucinating.

 _Kurt_.

He was older--taller, with sharper featured and broader shoulders--but it was unmistakably Kurt. The voice was still soft and musical, the skin pearlescent, the eyes like spears of ice sparkling wildly under the winter sun--Blaine's mind and heart flooded with memories so suddenly and violently that they threatened to burst from his bones, and he stood there gaping at the counter for nearly a full minute before anyone said anything.

"Um...you all right, sir?" The barista tilted his head, concerned, and Blaine's fantasy crumbled to pieces. His eyes darted to the boy's nametag-- Angel.

_What are you thinking, old man? Kurt is gone._

"I'm fine," said Blaine, shaking himself. "You just-- You look like someone I used to know, that's all. Ah... Very much. It's uncanny, actually."

The barista smirked. "I'll bet you say that to all the cute boys."

Blaine did something he hadn't done in years, and blushed. "Well, to be fair, I don't think the word 'cute' quite does you justice."

A mysterious smile still clung to the boy's lips as he went about making the drink, and-- _Christ_ , even his _movements_ were the same. Blaine fought not to stare, but he must have been failing, because the barista seemed to catch him in the act. He wore a knowing grin as he handed Blaine his cup.

"So what are you going from here?" he asked playfully, leaning over the counter. "Someplace fun?"

"Not at all," Blaine replied, raising his eyebrows. "I'm going to do incredibly boring things in incredibly boring places, because I'm old. Much too old for you."

"Oh come on," said the barista with a roll of his eyes, moving back from the counter. "Fifty-five is the new twenty-five." 

With that, the barista turned to take another customer, just as Blaine realized with a jolt-- _How does he know how old I am_?

He realized he was staring again, and finally tore his eyes away to go and find a table. He sat near the spot he and Finn had once shared coffee many years ago, watching out the window in between sneaking glances at the barista. It took a great deal of mental coaching, but he managed to tear his eyes away and focus on his drink. 

Just as he finished, he moved to get up and found the barista standing next to his table, holding a fresh coffee in one hand and his apron in the other.

"It's on me." he said softly, handing it over. Blaine took it wordlessly. He watched the barista smile mysteriously and turn away before all but disappearing out the door.

After a good few solid seconds Blaine took a sip of the coffee and realized something was written on the cup. As he read it, his eyes widened. His heart sped up way too quickly for a man his age, making his world spin. It was amazing how many years seemed to evaporate just then, and he grinned broadly as he all but drained his second coffee and hopped back into his car to zoom back to the station.

He'd always found his line of work to be more grisly duty than anything else--and maybe it still was, but it wasn't everything. It wasn't about settling his own personal demons, at least. It wasn't about retribution, either. It was about saving people instead of himself, because he didn't need saving anymore.

His name was Blaine Anderson. He was fifty-five years old, and he had just been born.

\--

_230-977-5768_

_Call me._

_It's never too late to start over._

_\--Your Angel_

THE END. 


End file.
